Oye Como Va

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I had no rhythm that day on the bench
sitting in shade, under the oaks and palms.
My thighs stuck to the green bars, 
legs going numb. 
I wanted to stop thirsting. 

It was so hot, I didn’t know what 
I was reading anymore. 
People passed on 
the sidewalk and I kept looking. 

Nevermind. 
I don’t want to tell . . . (Think Hopeless
Romantic tattooed underneath— 
one word on the back of each thigh,
in cursive.) 

I waited, a fool for a philosopher—
a pedant who writes in riddles, 
who eats tiny purple flowers instead of giving
them to me. 

But, I’d grown tired 
of waiting. 

A black and yellow butterfly 
fluttered in front of me. 

It circled the court and caught 
my attention in the leaves,

moving in frantic waves to the music 
blasting from the college yard. 
The flutter, the rhythm of this 
tropical arthropod was off. 

Until Santana played— 

Oye como va, mi ritmo! 
Bueno pa’ gozar, mulata! 

That butterfly! 
full of flavor 
in the sunlight— 

showing me 
the true rhythm 
a body knows.