She asks me if there’s enough sugar, sucre, if it’s sweet enough,
and I don’t know how to tell her that life is sweet, dulce, enough
as it is. Her dark hair is piled in thick braids, a crown, la corona, on
her head and her dark eyebrows almost meet in the middle.
But it’s her eyes, los ojos, that blaze.

We wear the same red lipstick, and the kisses, los besos, over the years,
have been sweet, muy dulce, but I am not the artist, la artista. Me, I’ve been the observed, not the observer, and have sat still and silent, en silencio,
while someone else has painted.

But then she shows me the pictures, las picturas, the portraits of herself,
los retratos, where she has seen details that even Diego himself might
have missed. Each dress, each dream, todos suenos, each imagined moment,
of the inner life she lays out for everyone to see. At this moment, esto momento
I want to take off my clothes for her, to let her, and no-one else see this
body, esto cuerpo, mio cuerpo, the way no one else has seen it.

She could find the dreams, los suenos, that I’ve hidden in the laughter, la risa,
in the red lipstick, in los besos, en los muchos besos, y en el silencio
of the model. I could become someone else in el retrato, perhaps even her monkey
would sit on my arm, mi brazo.