Ode to Federico Garcia Lorca

The poet has come down from the white hills to die in the red stone plaza.
The poet of the black mesa. The steel tribute of the bruised tornadoes.

The song of the village is in his heart. The song of his white heart.
The poet turns left at the edge of town, and circumambulates.

He walks sunwise along the ridges, sniffing the silver olives.
His mind is on fire with snow. A snow flute could narrate this story.

The dead white horses have come to snuffle at his feet.
Trailing over steaming flanks, the river has a quicksilver tongue.

A song floats across the plaza: the suicide pacts of lovers,
overwrought, far too passionate, thus perfectly contained.

At the poet’s feet, the young boys bear wreathes of thorns.
Ivory from the hills has been brought into the darkened city.

A lone olive tree, stripped bare by long-haired girls.
At the edge of the cliff, a white-gowned child spins a rosary.

The poet has merged with the grass, his face is the olive trees.
He peers out, wiser, greened, between beetle-chewed leaves.

Butterflies emerge from his lips, and are spent. The white butterflies.
In time, the blood falling from the blue rose-petals will dry.

Deep song from the café, Federico, where you sat and laughed,
the blood on your pants black in the candlelight,
while you laughed, freed at last from love’s knives,
Federico, freed at last in the hills by death’s silver stinger.

Blue tongues of the white flowers, Federico, and the blood-black rose.
The black mesa, Federico, and the white hills. The song of your white heart.