Tuesday, September 10, 2019


                                                               by John Arthur Lee

The Spanish guitar sings. The audience quiets. She enters.
Dark hair braided and tied up. Flower above one ear. Her lean arms
rise and float, like weightless spirits. Her polka-dot dress swishes and spins,
its ruffled edges cresting like ocean waves.
Amid rhythmic clapping, she drums the wooden floor with her fierce
Flamenco shoes. And in the reverberations, I hear lovers’ heartbeats. A surging
train. The staccato of warring armies.

I remember the first time I visited her home. Old metal chairs, one violet,
one seafoam, greeted me on the porch. Inside, I found sunlit walls painted
lemon ocher, sage green, autumn orange. No clutter. No extravagances. Just the
photo of a yogi. A sketch by a relative. A newspaper clipping. An old table with history. Her lover’s guitar.
She reserved one room for healing. And there, in dim light with the sound of ocean waves whispering, she floated her hands above my heart in a mystical energy dance. And despite my doubts and suspicion, I found myself lying in the hull of a canoe, looking skyward, a grand eagle flying above me. And while the universe’s rhythmic power rocked my injured body, my bruised soul unwound. And I wept.

The Spanish six-string calls me back. Her polka-dot dress spins downward.
Her electric irises fix on me a final time. You’re worthy, she says wordlessly.
Leap without regret. Fly.
The guitar stops humming, and I see an empty floor before me.
Life’s dance has pulled Cynthia away, and like a star-fire comet, she orbits
beyond my seeing. Though, somewhere, I’m certain, her arms float above her,
and her healing hands still swirl the positive power of the universe.