Fall 2009 / Issues / Poetry 2009 / Volume 40

Sleeping with Lorca — Lyn Lifshin

It’s not true, he never chose women.

I ought to know. It was Grenada and

the sun falling behind the Alhambra was

flaming lava. I could say I was

too but some things should be left unsaid.

But I remember his fingers on the buttons

on the back of my neck, my skin burned

as he fumbled with rhinestones and pearls.

I want you breathed into my neck though

perhaps he was whispering Green,

green I want you green. How little he

needed to impress me with his poems.

One English term paper with them and I

was naked, taken. It wouldn’t matter if

he had a pot belly or stank of garlic.

My jeans were a puddle around my knees.

I was the gored bull, hypnotized

by moves I’d only imagined but never

believed would enter me. There’s

more you might coax me to say but

for enough I can still smell the

green wind, that 5 o clock in the afternoon

that would never be another time.

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