Hey Google, play Gipsy Kings.
I toss my request at the cone machine
on the microwave as I get the sink
ready for another round of washing dishes.
The music starts. It is loud and full.
I’ve been craving this latin, flamenco,
gitanos Spanish Romani energy explosion;
the thick voices, the fast guitar,
the beautiful bass drumming
to the rhythm of spring’s sensual arrival.
My mother runs (hobbles – she hurt her foot)
into the kitchen, points at the speaker:
Gipsy Kings? I can’t believe you’re
listening to the Gipsy Kings!
All week, I tell her. I’ve been craving
them like chocolate cake.
Me too, she exclaims.
My hands warm in the hot water.
I press dish soap into the sponge.
The Gipsy Kings serenade our
spiritual connection: mother | daughter
musical matching is meaningful.
We marvel in the strumming.
I rinse a plate.
Place it in the dry rack.
Under the sound of running water,
under the flurry of cuban song synergy,
in the silent hallway with the door we
stare at but don’t open – we wonder
if the Gipsy Kings wail in another kitchen.
But we don’t wonder out loud. We let the Kings handle the yearning.
Gipsy Kings. Turn it on. Turn it up. Dance. Dance. Dance with your eyes closed and your hips open.