The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

Af­ter Lorca

The moon is colder than ever, ca­pa­ble of be­long­ing to us both. I want to swal­low it, stow its bright­ness in my throat. Look there, spi­der silk stitched near the horse’s eye, and the fur on the cat’s belly, stroked by wind.

I want to ask if you ever felt the same tug, the way my head was turned, early on, to­ward the pail of milk, blu­ing with flies or the small white moths, wet and dy­ing in the grass. Why it was rap­ture I found un­der a col­lapsed dome of snow, the sting and wa­ter light, bizarre reprisal of birth, pulled feet-first by my father.

I don’t know who made me cry over the pump­kin’s smashed grin, or who made me hear a green and sil­ver lone­some in the old woman open­ing hard candy in the last pew. I don’t know why I hear the tick of leaves un­furl­ing

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