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Saturday Cappuccinos: Variations on a Theme.

<TN>Randall, Margaret</TN>

listening to a record by Lien and Rey

 I
 While the coffee steams the Rubens girl or maybe Botero talks about a
film. The rhapsody of the tres
that grinds cinnamon while the cellist rises on a note in a tango by
Gardel like the foam on powdered milk and the painter draws a giant ant
on the wall that crawls minuscule over the sugar. The only thing missing
is the aroma of that tropical flower called vanilla I crumble on the
cape of an obese Franciscan friar whose flesh overflows the coffee laced
with grain barefoot smoking in these cups of virgin ceramic a gift from
Tarcila my sister who is no longer with us.
It is enough to move the little spoons to the jazz rhythm or conga beat
for the fusion to be served up like music.
II
The girl by Rubens a Frenchman
or perhaps Botero
     a Colombian like the rhythm now sounding in the record cut in
Bogota produced in Florida
talks about a
        Swiss
 film as he steams
        the Arabic
 blend
                  Italian style at a cafeteria in Sabanilla
The rhapsody of the instrument
       that comes from Bayamo
sprinkles cinnamon
       from Ceylon
while the cellist
       from Versailles from Matanzas
rises like the foam on powdered milk
       powdered milk from Canada
travels up a note in a tango by Gardel
       Argentineans all three
and the painter
       --dreaming of Greenland--
draws a giant ant on the wall that crawls minuscule over the sugar
       in the Tinguaro that comes from Indian sugar cane.
The only thing missing is the aroma of that tropical flower
       from America or Asia
called vanilla I crumble on the cape
       white Italian foam
of an obese Franciscan friar
       from Spain
whose flesh overflows the coffee laced with soy
       from Mexico
barefoot steaming in those cups of virgin ceramic
       from Isle of Pines
gift from my sister Tarcila who is no longer with us
       and is everywhere now.
It's enough to move the little spoons
       from Russia
above the rhythm of jazz
       from America
or to the beat of a conga
       from the orient
for the fusion to be served up like the music on the record.
III
I was going to write about friendship and ended up speaking of mixtures
or perhaps they are one and the same. 

Poems translated by Margaret Randall

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Author:Zaldivar, Alfredo
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2016
Words:500
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