9
Unmarked Grave

Asleep by the words of Federico García Lorca.
They have laid out bowls of fruit for my lover,
the words.

Undressed the tongues of timidness,
placed landscapes in my eyes before me

as I have touched her in the desert peak of midnight,
          while stallions cut like shadows fooled me
          and ran away with the ocean,

          drawing my hands down upon her

          like the waves of chill-breeze
          regressing with the surf,

          whose salt grains roll

          with the glimmers of the Milky Way.

          The glimmers are singing infinitude, possibility.

Come back from eternal Andalucia, García.

I have cooked salmon in olive oil,

for your tongue, of course.

Simmered it in the blood red wine of the worker’s toil,
oblivious they are of Franco’s oppression.
Let them go home to their smoky taverns,

wearing their Civil Guard pendants,

bringing down their kidneys,
placing veils upon their blood,
talking about what the newspaper tells them.

Like most workers, loyal to a system they do not control.
Like the brain, loyal to a body that will fail it.

I have poured sherry on the ground,

of where I know not you’re buried.

Then, put my cigarette out in the muddy mess.

The grass blades underneath were limpid,

waiting for a poet to convey upon them sadness.

But I will quit whining about yesterday

and drink the hallucinogens of the later 20th Century . . .
          you would have, wouldn’t you;
          tender sculptor of words?



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