Love Song for Lorca


Picking my teeth,
I am a concubine,
Ill-rested,
Astronomy in my gaze
And nothing in my hands.
Freedom cries, "Why are we not free?"
"Because, my dear, we share no truth."

Young and wrinkled, I traverse lonely halls,
set up shop in dark corners,
invite the rich to play
Where I have no place being.
Cradling and brutalizing in the
Same breath,
Breath pushed from a solo tongue clicking—
Not the space where two tongues meet.

Dust settling on tear-streaked faces,
Heads shaking,
Foot prints,
Sighs.

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