When Lorca held a dagger
to his poem's throat
and demanded angels
forsake their voice of haiku,
but must crow in telegrams
inscribed on carnations,

Those red roosters of heaven,
(you said only that their host was feathered –
did you not notice their craws, their combs,
Gabriel's stud-strut across the yard?)
crazed by their silencing,
voices locked forever on wax cylinders,

Like heavenly accordions
playing dust polkas,
like a cricket whose chirp
cannot be found in the wimples
of a nun, the mad search
and beating of sacred cloth with a cane –

Then oh Lorca, oh Basho,
outside, the smell of fruit trees
in Valparaiso:

The lemons, so sour –
Transubstantiation drinks
Scent of angel skin

15 thoughts on “Limonada

  1. Your poem is amazing, all of your poetry is amazing. I am ready to dive into “Hemingway and Lorca: Blood, Sand, and Duende”~~ should be delivered tomorrow! … cannot wait.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. You’ve really got into the spirit of the words, which is also the spirit of the poet, from that razor sharp opening to the soursweet end–I especially like what you did with rooster–that really shines, not to mention the shift of meanings and the sense of sleight of hand at play with your metaphors. That image of the cricket in the wimples was as vivid as cinema. Good stuff, qbit.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. reading this, i slipped into an orwellian vision of heaven, where the promised land is a chicken coup, and hell i would guess, is full of pigs? nice! i find the flavor of our limonade just divine, with a hint of banana tree, well written my friend

    Liked by 1 person

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