Marina Rubin "Logic"

[ezhika]

Marina Rubin gave me her book as a gift this past weekend and I liked it.

The Left Leg
on the stone steps
behind the seaport
where three bridges
converged into one,
he pulled my left leg
in a big black boot
over his knee and said
that he does not care
for poetry, bagels, or
scallions, or the rain
in Boston where he wasn't tonight, or the twelve million years
that needed to be understood in order to understand a minute,
but why would one need a minute when he could have twelve
million years, that none of it ever mattered, he only loved
this left leg in this black boot

The Stubborn Sangria

I hated
Sangria
in Madrid
sharing tapas
with six hands
and I hated Sangria
in Granada as gypsy girls danced in a cave of brass plates
but in Seville, whose favorite color is mustard,
gliding past structures, ecliptic, rainbow like, skewed,
I drank Sangria to the last rum, till the last cube of fruit
disappeared in my throat; funny that even Sangria
has found its right time; its right place,
its right to live and be enjoyed
on this ship in Seville
seven hours ahead of my life