Lorca, My Love

.

For Federico Garcia Lorca

Murdered by Fascists (1898-1936)

.

I am a flower

and my hand is my sun

that warms to life

the flower in me.

Lorca they say was

killed by Falangist bandits

with a shot up the ass for being queer.

He died

like I die

in a fertile country.

.

But I live again

after each petite death

of supreme forgetting:

the aloneness the dark root

of a scream.

I must make

the protein flower grow

to crush down inside me

the shriek that stands on tiptoe

waiting to remind me

that I am no one else.

.

I build my purl-veined harrow

of astonished flesh,

I cultivate the blood flower

of forgetting.

.

But my sun melts my harrow,

melts the paraffin flower

that blanches,

runs like liquid camellia,

dissolving to forgetting,

for getting the fore-gotten

sentence of aloneness.

.

And I wonder

what were Falangist bandits

and if they did any good

in the garden of bitter rosebay.

.