The Memory of Elena

We spend our morning in the flower stalls counting the dark tongues of bells that hang from ropes waiting for the silence of an hour. We find a table, ask for paella, cold soup and wine, where a calm light trembles years behind us. In Buenos Aires only three years ago, it was the last time his hand slipped into her dress, with pearls cooling her throat and bells like these, chipping at the night— As she talks, the hollow clopping of a horse, the sound of bones touched together. The paella comes, a bed of rice and camarones, fingers and shells, the lips of those whose lips have been removed, mussels the soft blue of a leg socket. This is not paella, this is what has become of those who remained in Buenos Aires. This is the ring of a rifle report on the stones, her hand over her mouth, her husband falling against her. These are the flowers we bought this morning, the dahlias tossed on his grave and bells waiting with their tongues cut out for this particular silence.