what they do to people like me where I’m from

For Federico Garcia Lorca

words came and that’s
the trouble. blood came
too, but you had them
running from their mother’s
house without it. into trees
and up the pagan hills
without it. you had boys
on horses, but they’re out
on the plain- deep in the
oppressive Spanish wasteland-
burning up and young forever.

the rest of us took to trees
and danced prodigious-
burned in some gone god’s
honor, hoping dance would
fill our bellies with more
than shame. wishing songs
would wash the fascist fear
we felt for dancing while
the peasants, the real ones,
took to truncheons.

we sang.
could you hear in
new york? could our
wails howl city strands of
butterfly beard.
‘cause we did wail and
we waited and sang and
even though words came
so did

the bullets.

Header photograph © Tara K. Shepersky.