Jennifer Lagier- Three Poems & Photos

Madrid

Camille salutes policia wearing blue uniforms, twirling threatening guns.
They form a mandatory reception line leading into the train terminal

where she is divested of purse and belt, subjected to a full body scan.

In the coach car, passengers sit, two by two.

An attendant pushes a squeaky cart down the narrow aisle,

dispenses espresso, newspapers, travel advice.

Green fields, leafless vineyards, graffitied concrete flash by.

A gravel-voiced matron shouts “Hola!” conducts impassioned conversations

at high decibel throughout the trip on her over-sized phone.

In Madrid, civil guardsman, blue vans on every corner.

Mimes and street performers command crammed plazas,

banter with tourists, beg for attention, coins and applause.

Crowds surround cathedrals, museums, the Prada where young soldiers swarm.

Camille moves from bistro to café, finally an umbrella table beside park kiosk,

sips sparkling wine among pink blossoming trees in a demilitarized zone.

Alicante Beach Esplanade

Camille explores the old town beach promenade.

Dizzying bands of cream, green and rust tiles wriggle

between inns, marketplace booths, white swath of sand.

Before 10 a.m., a thin stream of curious tourists.

Here and there, an elderly couple walking their dog.

She marvels at pastel high-rise apartments,

their wrought iron balconies floating gardens

of scarlet geranium, vivid nasturtium,

imagines what it must look like at night,

boisterous crowds traversing patterned path,

waving ever-present cigarettes, clutching cold beers.

From her café table abutting the esplanade,

she sips potent espresso, watches joggers,

a shirtless roller blader with muscular legs,

sighs at the sight of his rippling abs.

Tapas y Tequila

 

After stumbling into the midst of a church procession,

Camille, who is allergic to piety, craves an antidote to religion.

Heads to Plaza Santa Barbara and her favorite café.

Orders tapas and tequila, discretely settles into a nook,

eavesdrops on couples canoodling at dark corner tables.

 

Bartender Luis knows her weaknesses, serves local scandal

in lisping Spanish over espresso, sangria.

Chalks today’s paella specials on blackboards

hung from ancient stone walls at the foot of a staircase.

Croons sexily with music videos, holds out a hand,

invites her to join him.

 

“When in Spain,” she thinks, knocking back a shot.

Grinds her way to the dance floor.

Jennifer Lagier has a growing affinity for sibilant snakes who hiss in Valencian dialect.