TO THE MEMORY OF FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA

I tuck your poems under my pillow
the gasping ones you wrote with blood
the August night they led you away
and shot you dead in the dark courtyard

I tuck your last poems there
safe beneath my sleeping head
and wonder if in dreams
you might recite the words to me

I tuck them hidden far from those
who still try to mute your poet’s voice
as if your words were sharp enough
to slice deep into evil hearts

I tuck the magic of your cadences
feel their rhythms dance against me
feed the open mouth of hopelessness
make all that is sad happy again

I tuck the poems your Spanish tongue
will never speak again, poems the wicked
crushed beneath their heels the night
truth died in a salvo of exploding fire

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