The Flamenco Fan
 
Seville, Spain
 
I long to pick it up, then flick my wrist
to close and open it, but I resist,
because I’ve tried that move before and failed:
it looked so easy, but I only flailed
and dropped the fan I’d dared to grab. I sense
that this one, in its pleated elegance,
its arc of painted passion boldly bared,
awaits a kind of life I’ve never dared.
A silent rhythm fills its folds, and closed
or open, it’s a question coyly posed
in no need of reply. It wants to be
a dancer’s tool, a flirt’s accessory,
expertly toyed with, handled with the art
and ardor of flamenco, to impart
an ancient story or a new desire
or both, or not a thing but its own fire.
It doesn’t want a tourist’s ignorant
and greedy touch, although the shop is meant
to sell to me; the merchant’s glad to take
my euros. Boxing it so it won’t break,
he makes the sale. I put it on display
at home, where I admire it every day,
but seldom touch it, for I understand
it’s always longed for a more Spanish hand.

Jean Kreiling
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Jean Kreiling  would like to hear them