Pelin went to Spain |
a poem by Carl Boon

Pelin went to Spain,
saw different clouds, men
in bracelets proclaiming
the Virgin. She laughed
when they laughed,
and drank San Miguel
in Cordoba at the Atrio Café.
She never wanted to leave,
she wanted to kiss the boy
who stood afternoons
on Avenida Eva Perón,
but always a thundercloud
came, a warning, or nuns
carrying blankets.
So she watched him
from her terrace instead,
surveying the diagonal
streets where supper
might be with Maria,
and read. Hemingway
was there, and the poet
whose name she’d forgotten,
the one whose words
became blue flowers
every summer, then crimson
as the weather cooled.

Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two Thirds North, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and the Kentucky Review.