Ode to Federico Garcia Lorca
Dark earth bloodstain; pink seed
of pomegranate and good-hearted Spaniards
kicking back at Fascists. Granada, paradise
of castles and cobblestones where wind cuts
and music clings to whitewashed walls.
Tortured and shot, you died in pursuit of gannia,
deep song primitive. Buried in an unmarked grave,
brave man, maricon; loving man, faggot —
Huerta de San Vicente, a breeze
through curtains, my bare feet on cool ceramic
I inhale orange blossoms, put my hands
on your dark, solid desk; a small vase of flowers
on the right, inkwell on the left; poster of La Barraca
over your head. I know your dream of Salvador Dali —
two strong shadows, play of light and dark on the wall
by your bed. He is omnipotent — loving, kissing,
going as far as shame will let him. The two of you
naked in the Mediterranean. I hear him whisper crazy
in your ear, feel the tingle of his olive-coloured voice.
Maricon, faggot, you never caved in,
wouldn’t hide from the long-gun fascists.
They kicked and dragged you along the street,
a bag tied over your head. The semitones
of your voice byzantine, liturgical.
Your terror is with me, the bruises and tears.
And your words — poems in my hand
like melancholy prayer. O! Lorca
with earth-born sonnets and transcendent
music, you are deep-earth truth — maricon, faggot
— I hold you, hear your determined voice,
a flurry of words like a dove tethered fast to my heart.