Buenos Aires: violins, guitars, a bass;
Piazzolla and his bandoneón;
and me, surrounded by trees,
Lake Forest ladies, and mansions
large enough to hold a small town in.

The sun is barely out today:
a small boy who hides behind
drapes, shy of visitors. I
want to hide, too,
here in this room...
forever... behind pillows and
lamps, deep in the yellow
wallpaper or under the rug
of leftover threads woven
into a multicolored bird.
In between day and night, when
the sky is indecisive amid
dark and light, a quilt of clouds,
books and hours, slips from my lap.
I site by the window: fuschias droop
beyond lace curtains, wind
shakes oak leaves after rain.
Darkness arrives unnoticed:
my bed, narrow, the mattress, high.

And from here I fly away very fast,
not passing through Chicago, like
nsneaking behind a husband's back,
to Beunos Aires and laugh,
dreaming of trapeze artists and acrobats.

- Beatriz Badikian

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