Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-nine
Winter 2015
 
In Sacromonte
Caleb Beissert

Thousands of silver nails
in the heel of the flamenca
clapping against floor thunder
calling the flame.

The red spinning
petals of death unfold!

Feathers spread, whirling,
her black eyes
so alone
yet the room is watching
lightning—

even the camareras with trays of cañas
look on, darting as in dream
about the cave.

Forgive me. I am not from here.
I stopped in, because I heard the music.


The room grows silent.

About Caleb Beissert

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