I didn’t shoot the piano player.
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.
Hit me with your best shot –
joyously, I’ll sing “Fire Away!”
But rifles spraying bullets at second grade
is way too Republican for me.
Their right to bear arms
is a command to bury our children.
Sorry is what you say when your mother tells you to,
even though you are shaking with rage because your sister took your doll
So you say it
because there is no arguing with Eyebrow-Raised-Mother,
her hand held high.
Sorry is the lid that presses down on rage,
Compressing and compressing until it is your hot, white core
Sorry is what you say when the principal tells you to,
even though you seethe with anger, because
you’ve been accused of cheating for looking round the room.
So you say it
Because there is no arguing with stern-mouthed-Principal,
her arms closed tight
Sorry is the lid that presses down on anger
Shoving and shoving until it is stuffed in the crevice of your heart
Sorry is what you say when the world tells you to
Even though you are simply walking, eating, breathing, existing
So you say it
Because there is no arguing with Hurry-Legged-Strangers
Their minds closed tight
Sorry is the lid that presses down on pain
Squeezing and squeezing until you’re numb and tame
During the pandemic quarantine, I learned
Imagine
having it all
everyhting you wanted and more
I relate most to Greed
My sister sin
the hunger got to her
She just wanted to keep eating
i decide
they say it is as easy as
that
the grudged offence
each new day calls me like a mother rallying her children to dinner
seeking out a seat at my table
the perpetrator
no idea i begin with their words
actions
cupped in shallowed hands tossed across
the stone walkway
fingers wiping clean chore done for another day
fed to the morning birds
Above the city
A woman hangs her sheets
in love with the smell of fresh air filtered through linen
that greets her as she snuggles into a single bed.
Above the city
A man tosses a plastic disc to a border collie
enamored with the dedicated attention his best friend devotes
to watching its flight.
Above the city
A couple quaffs a vintage of wine
thankful to be up up up
in pristine silks and hand-tooled leathers.
Above the city
A boy kisses a girl
adoring her seven-freckled face that smiles with forgiveness
for his fumbling lips.
Above the city
a priest atones
head bowed knees bent as he waits for the bells below or the blessing above to
fall on his ear.
Above the city
a city
lovely in its loneliness
alone in its loveliness.
I never knew
how hard
it could be
to pick out
something
she would wear
an outfit
to send her
on her way
to eternity
I know I am
self depricating
and sad and angry,
and all the things that
make it impossible
to love me.
But, you do,
anyway.
I know I can be
intrusive
and loud
and too big
in our small home.
I wish my anger and
bitterness
wasn’t so palpable.
But it is,
and you love me,
anyway.
You are like
silk,
and you feel
so good
but if you pulled
at all,
you would slip through
my fingers
because I can’t wrap my hands
around you.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Branches green.
The boat is riding on the sea,
and the horse is on the mountain.
Shadows on her waist,
she dreams outside the open windows.
Green flesh, hair of green,
with eyes of hardened cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Below the gypsy moon we look at her,
but she is blind to us.
Green, how I must have you green.
Hallowed stars of crystalline frost
come with hidden fish, to swim
and break open the path of dawn.
The fig tree polishes the wind
with the sandpaper of her shoots,
and the mountain, a thieving cat,
bristles her in her business.
But who comes? And from where…?
She is on the railing with her
green flesh, hair green,
lost dreaming in the deafening sea.
—Friend, I want to trade
my horse for your house,
my mount for your mirror,
my knife for your blanket.
Friend, I am bleeding, have been
since the ports of Cabra.
—If I could, my little man,
this dire matter I would settle.
But I am not myself anymore,
nor is this house mine anymore.
—But I want to die dignified
in my bed of wrought iron,
with the comfort of Holland sheets!
Can’t you see the wound here
from the nave unto my chin?
—Your canvas shirt is three hundred
roses brown, and your blood, coppery,
oozes, stinking around your belt.
But I am not myself anymore,
nor is this house mine anymore.
—Lift me high my friend,
up to the highest balconies,
lift me! lift me up!
to the green railings. The railings
of the moon where the water thunders.
And the two friends ascended
towards the high railings.
Staining the walls, a trail of blood.
Staining the walls, a trail of tears.
Tin lanterns trembled tiny on the rooftops,
a thousand of them maiming the dawn.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Branches green.
Up the friends went,
and a black throated wind
left in the mouth a strange taste
of most bitter wine, mint and sweet basil.
—Hey! Where? Tell me!
Where is this rancorous girl?
Has she ever waited for you?
How many times will she wait for you,
fresh face, sable hair,
on this green railing?
Looking down
on the face of the well
the gypsy sways like the fig tree.
Green flesh, hair green,
with eyes of hardened cold silver.
She is a pendant above the water
cradled in the icicles of the moon.
The night hushed like a small town square.
At the door, drunken civil guards began to knock.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Branches green.
The boat is riding on the sea,
and the horse is on the mountain.
Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi
