Cantina

There was a wisdom
Local to the town which
Passed along the bar
Each afternoon as the sun
Slipped through
The torn strips of canopy
Until the soft fat rods
Of light crossed the bare wood
Of the tables the pale
Bottles of whiskey and the one
Green liqueur
She would order to take alone
Out onto the small patio
To a stone bench no larger
Than a child’s cradle
So worn it seemed to sag
At its middle and that wisdom
She thought had
Much to say about women
Though she paid no attention
And was unsure if what she’d
Translated to herself wasn’t just
Something she’d overheard passing
One of the alleys
Leading away from the plaza
Of wheat-and-cream colored stones
Even in the heat her bench
Remained cool and firm
Unlike the quivering in one’s vision
As she lifted the glass again
Against her lips then lay back upon
The stone with
Her hips pressed into its smooth
Hollow while she looked up
At the branches arcing limply
Above dropping their leaves leaves
Slowly covering small pieces
Of her body
The leaves of a tree
So familiar as to be forgotten
By everyone in the cantina
A tree known to them
So long it was no longer mysterious
Although it was said to be
A delicate a delicate
And complicated tree for which
They believed there was an ugly
Foreign name