Trio Los Condes

Victor Hernández Cruz

Lyre and voice
the ancient serenade
Strings right below myth.
A circle of naked flesh
from the pores comes
the a capella of the Greek
chorus, the Taino Areyto flute
in the dance.
The Polynesian hands of
word waves.
Fingers tracing songs
in the wind.
The harmony creates columns
Each one a color a position
Bodies and objects that have
become sound.
I see plates and saucers
enclosed behind glass,
Small shot glass,
a magnificent oval bottle
of brandy,
Men walking through bluish
plastic curtains
Wearing thin ties and silky
All blue motion, red dance
the chains of Andalusia
broken loose,
What caramel would sing
if given a mouth.
In Cuba the rumba slowed down,
oil of the drummers’ hands,
following the lament of the voice,
a mass tribute to the female form
The moon coming down as nickels
for the nickelodeon
Push H-7
Los Condes sing, “Amor de mis amores”
and bring back a skinny Agustín Lara
sitting in the margins of Rubén Darío’s
From San Francisco to New York,
a guitar sticks out of a ’57 Packard
Moving through streets that are hills
open highway Interstate 10
all the way heartbreaking voyage
To the smog of the east coast

They were the counts of a
monarchy of boleros,
For inspiration Pedro Flores flowers
the same,
The bridge of a woman’s eyes
The sense of her yellow dress.
Not philosophy of ideas but
the Eros of touch
Skin lyrics
Boleros are flesh poetry
They respire the air you are,
in the distance of oblivion,
recall the picture of all the sweet
truth that floats in the lake of
her eyes,
That this caress was the night star
of your walk coming to my adobe
Toward my heart orphaned of kisses,
amor does not part through eternities,
Have we guessed the clear beauty
of who shines
Who trembles in a voice
The words that belong to men
ink upon the papyrus-woman,
Rhapsody that converts black
hair into white roses.
We’ve got to have the world
the soil and its birds.
Walk through paths
of folding bamboos
Bring songs
through deserted streets.
We want the ports of the Americas
visible and flagrant
bongos in the undercurrent
moving like ships
below the wings of the strings.
The kiss from the window
reaching the street eye.
People who allow themselves
to be penetrated by words,
Suggestion of freshly brewed desire
sacrificing bodies to the songs
Convinced of illusion.
Such is what Los Condes bring
a memorial pastry of harmonious illusions
songs climbing walls of bricks
Entering through the open window
Into a head that momentarily lifts
from a pillow
only to settle back into the abyss.

Mohammed Amine Merced Hernandez / Academy of American Poets