A Solitary Rose
( after Federico Garcia Lorca )
A dark seraph, and a black horse,
riding the one without a broken wing.
My heart is an orange,
drawn and quartered in sections,
succulent and ready for midnight
to take in my breath of desire
before I succumb to the scarred
sunken pits in the garden
that death haunts, that knows
the way is far beyond Córdoba.
But not for me, like a songbird
who sings of my pain,
not of the love I have to give it.