Green, how I would love you green
Giant stars of frost
Come with the shadow fish of darkness
That open the way to the dawn
(Garcia Lorca, “Ballad of the Sleepwalker”)
A small man, eyes moist like a girl,
with shadows wrapped around his waist.
I used to roll his words in my mouth
with the taste of wine and olives
From Jerez de La Frontera and suck them clean.
I hid them under my tongue.
after Spain had eaten her own children.
In La Taverna Camborio on the Alameda,
Lorca introduced me to famous whores
and Flamenco singers of great prominence and regard.
The guitarist, Manuel Velez, El Nino De Huelva
touched my cheek and said
in another life I might have been a gypsy.
Pastora Pavan kissed me full on the lips
and put his hand where hip meets waist.
I was very young, and I twisted in my embarrassment
but did not pull away.
The second time, I returned the kiss.
They showed me how to drip absinthe into the water.
It turned smoky, and the sugar on the filigreed,
silver spoon caught fire and melted
into the green clouds of wormwood, anis and mint.
An aftertaste of veronica, coriander and lotus flowers.
The shadows in the room loosened.
I was swaying over the deepness of a cistern,
perched on the edge of a wound.
I went to the piano and played Tarrega and De Falla.
It has turned green, I whispered to Lorca.
Manuel Velez played a Carcelera,
the lament of one unjustly imprisoned.
and then accompanied Pastora Pavon
who sang a Siquiriyas.
Comb your hair with my combs
My combs are made of cinnamon.
I played the piano for the traveling theatre.
Que Va. Federico, What a perfection of ability
She sight-reads the music impeccably.
Bunuel had his eye on me,
but he was loud and I didn’t care for his swagger.
And Dali–If you look at his painting
“Le Fer Verte” in the Figueras museum
you’ll see a young woman playing a green piano.
That year In Cadiz, we watched the old woman
win the dance contest, simply by lifting her arms,
tossing her head and stamping her foot.
The old woman read Lorca’s fortune in the cards that night:
She shook her head, Que va, I see nothing of importance,
She told Federico and turned away
The next day Pastora Pavon pressed her:
A man is lying on a couch in a darkened parlor.
Pieces of turquoise are on his eyes.
Words are melting in his mouth.