Andalusian Resurrection #poem #poetry

 

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

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Fernando Cortes; Shutterstock; [link]