by Russ Sargent

Calle Lorca will always be the scent
of fresh bread clinging to me
all the way to the tenth century ruin
where al Mutasim invited poets
to make their songs.  Few come here now.
It’s hot.  There are no refreshments.
Yet the stones of a thousand years
are like loaves of bread to me.
Memory songs the gods keep.
Durable as the twin peaks
of Las Hermanitas across the bay.
Something rises in me here.  Ah,
to walk the hills of Almería
with lips singing, wondering how
they survived the Andalusian moons
and the rigorous schedules they keep.
Waiting here in the dark.  I sit
in moonlight.  The rocks warm
as bread freshly broken.
Strange nourishment, stone is.
This stone I eat.  This stone
I feed to the dead.