Doren Robbins


LORCA


I remember Lorca holding a paper plate with some Greek figs, he was looking at that child
who sometimes looked like him.
And because he, Lorca, is comprehensible at all times, and every one of the cries
––and all poems slang some cry or they’re swindled out of carrying the cry
for the uterus
of sound, you don’t repress it without regret. Generations of blood on those hands already.
Generations of verbal carcinogens for that boss if he speaks
down to you.
I was leaning more toward the surprise of what you pass through when nothing covers you
or heaps up inside of you. And that side, that adopting a tone you think you’re safe
coming through side of you, researching something like the Latin phrase for someone
that encourages you into apologizing excessively,
assholia unendica, for example, when,
factually, it’s pitiful, what unshittable nonsense: a hundred and three years to see through
––just to begin to get a look at yourself.
When I was nineteen and read Lorca, I said, this guy could turn a leaf into a sail. He could’ve
trained a clown’s dog easy.
Did I understand what he was talking about? Of course I did I lived in the imagination
with my cold fruit cup and twenty-three pencils that were ecstatic without me.
I lived on the corner, however much that mattered since every place on the street
was abandoned.
I couldn’t explain it then,
I could barely begin to add up the cracks at the curb, at that corner.
I don’t know if he, Lorca, would’ve found his quieted down side or if he needed one.
The fate of fierce consequence maybe never occurred to him as a way to think.
One of the thugs that shot him shrugged when they said,
“the assassinated man was a poet, and a faggot.”
The Spanish Civil War was a topic people that read books or lived through
still talked about back then. When I started reading him people I knew
were trying to figure out Surrealist dream language alongside his missing body alongside
Spain cratered toward…toward, like there is a sufficient way
to describe the condition we arrived at? And the maintenance of the condition?
The dream language I couldn’t turn on took
on a way to dim the view, dim the world dim, dim the proverb that he, Lorca,
with his whole language was against: the proverb: the destruction won’t come quick enough.
It consumed him one of the first.
I believe the horse vine leaking out the end of the last rain resolved
the way only a plant can resolve
to grow next to him, close to his thighs. And Lorca,
the pitcher of water, the tense Camilla against the window,
his mouth full of melody, full of the dancer
opening his fist…