Laughter flings itself on the walls
of a derelict Spanish village.
He stops on the steps
between two tumbling cottages,
sperm leaking down my leg.
He turns his palm to the sun blenched wall
and listens, as if with a stethoscope
to the baby in my womb
two years from now –
before we know it dies.
I want to be his hand against the wall
skin against stone, warmth of ages
the generational laughter
trapped in horse hair crevices.
I watch the caress of the wall –
those fingers that slid inside
and made me cry out not an hour ago.
I listen to my stiletto heels echo
as I climb up the sandstone steps
to where he is, I catch his glance
lilting between sun and shade
and I forgive him, everything.