by S Stephanie
after reading the documents on Lorca’s death
finally released by Granada Police, 04/2015
I’m calling in all of Lorca’s small animals tonight
drying off each one’s colorless coat of rags
while the truth behind his execution dies in a wind storm
of a thousand White House emails and a few deflated footballs.
Countless stars, moons and their mountains drizzle down
New York’s cheeks
uselessly, and hot, white gullies of deceit flow by
unnoticed, while I dream of kissing Lorca’s forehead twice
and one day asking him if our sun will ever be lit.
I’m wiping all of his children’s blank–egg faces
I’m charming his city–colored snake back
into its basket before the media carries us away.
I’m hiding all on the fourth floor of my memory
while newscasters and journalists are busy with Benghazi
while the literati waits for the next best poem.
As useless as this small act seems, I’ve heard of wet pens
discovered years later under the floorboards in the attics of war.