Los Portales
Marzelle Robertson
The courtyard of Los Portales
offered shade trees, the breath
of desert plants, the hum
of bees at the throat of flowers,
a fountain of whispers. The room –
tiles cool to bare, sore feet,
a roof laid across log beams,
a waterfall shower, white sheets,
a meal of lamb in delicate cream
and quail in a sauce of tempered fire,
a heavy wood door to swing
closed on forged iron rings.
