Posts for June 2, 2022 (page 14)

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

janus,
hold up

prop open the screen
door and hold it

with a fan whir;
               
                               see out,
and all the way in again
scrub the doorframe with

a secret flask your mother had spilling
floor wash of moonlight

and creeksteps, cold, don’t forget to holler
for the dogs to come in and that the frogs’ swarpin

pondside has its own song to practice in the shower;

look, the seeds already sprung them
marigold promises on the yet unsettled

dirt, mound and tamped down
by shovels and a calloused hand
splintering hammers in the rain

all over car parts with names
and reasons i don’t understand
waiting for master’s knowing

reassembly.

Hummingbirds slowdown

Just an occasional male

Females on their nests

I’m learning to find solace
in silence,
how to press my ear to the chest
of late Spring,
to listen for the heartbeat of afternoon
that spells its way out
in bike tires against blacktop
or the echo of footsteps upstairs,
how to find traces of life
in the moments it seems most faint.

An apology sticks on my tongue like outdated bread. 
I push it around praying perfect phrases
manifest to explain why I did 
the god-awful thing I did,
why I hurt you with the only weapon I wield —
pen to paper
an anonymous letter to the wife you didn’t claim.

But words like distrust, past trauma, sisterhood elude my mouth
as you rage on about how you’re “such a nice guy” and “a good father”
and question “Why would someone do this to me?”
Instead, I sit before you mute, 
tune out your narcissistic monologue,
and ingest my excuses.
You couldn’t have swallowed them anyway.

the crossroads
a thick line, in the grass
visible, at my feet

no looking away
the same vessels pumping blood, but different,
difference, 

the tool box, to my right, with every tool,
but the one I need
how did it turn out, in the end?

Don’t let it press against you, 
let it pass through
dont pull ahead, and rip apart 
breath, it will pass

I turn to share with her as she were there
I turn again suddenly her out of view
i turn in and surrender the reins have all washed the baby with the dish water
I turn i turn turn turn turn
everything’s as it is and she is with me

When I sat you down and
c  o  n  f  e  s  s  e  d
to self harming, you
compared my acts of searing
self hatred to when you
absentmindedly pick your fingers

I was so relieved at having not been
p  u  n  i  s  h  e  d
for punishing myself, I 
didn’t say a word.

I asked why she was crying with the kitchen all in a mess

she blurted out I organize when I get stressed,

I’d seen worse coping habits I guess,

broken brackets from distress, lid to pot ratios in excess

I suppose we could talk but she’d rather suppress

I’ll likely learn more watching her repress in process,

each placement an emotional move of chess

failing still to remove the feeling she can’t express