at the Cabaret Vert.
II. Malaguenas
BODY erect and arm defiantly curved,
she flings small steps to the clack of her castanets,
which snap their rhythm at one, more musical
than the slight scrape of the plectrum on mandoline strings.
She turns and yet so slowly, so haughtily ...
I wonder if she is an Empress masquerading
in this dim-lighted, ill-reputed café.
Click and the rhythm swims to Pedro’s head,