|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
after Federico García Lorca
For years I’ve searched
for the tunnel back
to the poet’s time,
where we drink vino tinto,
listen to warm piano
and the cantaores, to speak
of revolution, the ever-
revolution. To sit at tables
and smoke. Nobody lives long
here. Friends share their poems
quick laughter, camaraderie tight
but gone just like that,
each friend alone as death.
Death runs this region
upon long red roads, courses
through trunks and branches
that reach, wracked with life,
the mountainsides. Even in winter
the trees are alive. Even in Andalucía,
the killing ground, there is green,
even after leaves have wept
to the earth. Even in stormy midnight
where man is without lanterns,
the only sound the culverin fire.
O death, take me there—
for one drop of that vintage,
one word from the living poet!
The wine is gone, cigar musk
faded, the lamp wicks blackened.
The visionaries have gone insane
or been murdered, bodies drying
in the long red roads, scorched
in soil, etched in clay, lingering.
About Caleb Beissert