114. an aspiring poetess on a visit to Spain


(in search of Federico, pt. 1)

I did not find your gypsies in the city,
though I scoured it beastially: my ivory feet transmorphed into hooves.
I rode beyond the barrios
away from vendors
of watered-down coffee and bland rice.
Let me drink the real Moorish poison,
an acestral tradition we share.
I am one quarter deep in Muslim heritage,
it is not as obvious to cause alarm in airports.

Fuelled by curiosity and a disorder of yearning,
shooting like a silver bullet through the carbon-copies of
crowds with the warm Southern wind at my back,
(no need for Woody’s imagined carriage or Einstein’s perhaps-if-theoretically equations)
turning a corner into a street that looks no different than the rest,
I will find you.
Two onyx souls floating on a sepia-colored face,
pulling me inside into the pot of spice, sweat and history.

Federico. The gypsies have gone.
They left the ornate laces of concrete and palms
where you stand proudly cast in bronze
with a dove in hand:
a symbol,
rigid statue,
And oh, I know,
you so dearly loved to sing and dance.

When a rattlesnake smuggles me inside its womb
into Granada, I will mingle with the strangers on her streets:
a cell floating through a maze of arteries
toward your elephantine heart.
In the air,
in the song of an immigrant hanging fresh sheets
and letting notes fall in tune with the droplets
on my face,
in the wondorous possibilities of modern physics,
I will find you :
an atom that was a hundredth of your thumb,
a millionth of your coal-black hair.

But I will not find the gypsies.
They have gone.


You think, therefore you are.

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