Remember Quetzal, joanna vogel

I remember,
not how to say I remember in Spanish,
but being read to
your voice speaking Spanish to me
like the purring of a cat –
you know the type of cat,
the one you’ve stroked until it
can’t sit still,
can only press itself, for dear life,
against your fingertips;
into the palm of your hand.

You read to me
about the Quetzal
no te muere nunca we said together
and you looked at me with green eyes,
beautiful feline eyes,
kissed my hand
and continued reading.

Beautiful
beloved
warrior boy who
cannot die is
shot through the heart by a
jealous arrow and since he
cannot die
the gods decree he will become a bird.

I knew the story already,
so I allowed myself to drift
in your purring voice,
rising from someplace deep in your throat,
bubbling up like thick,
dark honey.

I wondered about the Quetzal
and us.
What would happen if he, like Icarus,
flew too near the sun?
Would he be singed, burnt,
and fall into the sea
to drown?
Or would he mimic the Phoenix
burst into a mad dance of orange
and yellow flames and emerge
unscathed
and more beautiful?

In the same vein,
could I, a mere mortal, riddled with blemishes
and clichés,
lie so close to you,
my accented goddess,
and not be burnt by your cool skin,
not drown in the honey of your voice?
Could I be Quetzal and Phoenix,
could I be daring Icarus,
and orbit you?
Could I then fold up my wax
wings, roost safely in the
flames of you hair
a bird being read to by a beautiful cat?
You will not melt my wings.