For speaking too truthfully,

for seeing too clearly—

awkward silence,

thrust into the conversation

like a banderilla into the heaving side

of an afternoon bull—

you have been banished

to your bedroom.

“For being rude to the gentleman,”

your mother scolds,

punctuating her reprimand

with a slap across your legs.

You bite the lace of your white dress

as you peel it off,

stretching in the breeze

that drifts through the pine-slat windows.

Not a caballero but a toreador,

you think crossly—

he stared at your sister’s breasts

while wooing your mother

with his embroidered costume;

his compliments

were the red cape undulating

in the dusty ring.

“So brave,”

your sister murmurs,

cheeks flushed,

and she shifted her neckline a little lower,

fingers lingering on her skin

as if she knew anything.

You smirked as you served the drinks,

watching them simper,

until his hand stroked your thigh

as if it belonged there.

The doves fly out of the plaza

as you look out the window,—

you wonder what they are saying,

if your mother’s cakes will soothe

the sword you saw in his eyes

as you hissed in fury—

the heat presses against your face

even as you ache for water,

even as the smell of oranges

rises from the street.