SEVILLA
By
Dolores de Leon

I remember the city I could hold
in one hand:
My fingertips could span its streets,
Touch both sides at once,
Grasp the dappled shadows
On fifteenth century walls
No higher than my head.

In hidden patios I could sit in ferns
up to my waist
Trace their tendrils with my fingerstips
Cool my palms on tile walls.

In the morning market,
String bags of groceries by
my side,
I felt the round-bodied weight
Of the women as they sifted by me,
Watched their fingers test
the flesh of fish
The contour of fresh eggs.

Under the shadow of orange trees,
In plazas only twenty footsteps to the
other side
I could sit close by
To guitarists playing
Music meant to be heard—
By just a few.

At night, in slim spaces in small bars,
The men and women danced the
Sevillanas.
Criss-crossing each other
They caressed--but only with
their fingertips.

Sevilla
Built to mankind's measurements,
No high-rise ice, no steel, nor glass
darkened my streets,
Left me untouched.

I loved the city close at hand.