--Spencer Reece
For Laura García-Lorca De Los Ríos
I kept vigil. Preferred shadows.
When I spoke, a man interrupted me.
Someone called me a bitch. The bird
on the branch then suddenly, it's gone.
I forgot your name. Yelled from a ditch.
You've no idea what it was like.
Occupied my sex, barely, but—
Remember the rain?
The tree in silence, but suddenly,
the wind. Some talked about the past.
Whatever was the point of it all?
I held on through such argument!
Wished I winced less, but—
I was alone. The moon fondled me.
Was thrilled to be fondled. I ached
in the arches of my feet. I was wrong—
About much.
Believing I was alone. . .
I lingered, planted a garden,
hammered in stakes with names.
We waited. God did we wait.
I washed cutlery to make a music.
Complicated the horizon like a lilac.
No one noticed me. Not really.
Which was a relief.
A bird in the wind—
brings the memory of you back.
Suddenly I see with the light of your eyes.
My country? Did I have a country?
¿Mi pais? ¿Tuve un país?
Stupid to bank on belonging,
I always knew that. I belonged to the Lord.
People laughed when I said that.
I no longer cared.
When my nailed human was free,
I left.
No comments:
Post a Comment