July 1936
(thinking of Garcia-Lorca)

Brian Pohanka

The poet dying in Granada
touches the silver sphere of evening's
first-born star,
A pearl half-suspended in rose wine
and tears splashed across a gray felt sky
like blood on dirty sidewalks.

Oh Andalusia
Why do they die?

They die because
That star is a frigid point of steel
Poised above our suffering;
Sacrificial, red-encrusted
Dripping sweat and fear onto
Sawdust agony-
The vivas of the crowd
Are weeping children
and rifles laugh beneath battlements
on the olive-covered hills.

The poet dying in Granada
But his eyes stroll off singing
enter faceless shops
and blink at shattered glass--
Glittering baubles in the avenue.

the poet dead in Granada.
vultures are the sky
corpses are the earth
And the sunset
A girl's half-open lips.


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