I want my body burned on pyre a Viking boat will take me far on the cold sea I want to leave my grave goods for the poor and take the pain which branded their souls into a bursting aurora borealis fire I want to feel the sobs of the North Pole.
I want to burn inside the rhythms of the flamenco flame in the dancers’ passion in the streets of old Córdoba I want to entertain rich masters for a piece of bread inside the silent cries of those who are misunderstood I want the desperation of the dancers dressed in red
and you, the one who always claimed to know what powers lie inside the jungle of my soul you’ll fade into your own acoustic lamentations the fated day when I, the queen of sufferers, proclaim that in the sanctity of the mandala I want to disappear without a name
Included in my book: Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world. Federico García Lorca
open your veins Andalusia let him drink from your lynx blood inject the rhythms of the flamenco under the coldness of his eyes tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite pour the sounds of castanets into his arms my fingers swirl the flesh of ripened olives covers the old shroud the flow of blood from the white shirt has stopped I hear his voice there is one cross and you’re my only love my body arches oils flame in my hair a Moorish verse falls from a wall covering my cries
Andalusia I kneel among your cacti fed by salt your wounded lashes resurrected him for yet another night