We had to dig you up, mi amor—we, who
couldn’t say goodbye. Body of man,
carnal tree of our dreams: your seeds fell
on rocky ground—before your words could
become flesh in us. Our moon has since
chased your sun, going ‘round in circles. We
are the widows of your untimely departure.
They poisoned you, Manuel said. You dropped
your leaves—covering our raw nakedness:
a shroud of unfinished songs that haunted us
with an impossible quest for outros. We scattered
your bones in Santiago, North Carolina, and
Murcia: dust spread upon this planet
parched mad for your fierce red wine.
Yet what good are dust and bones to the desert?
We need showers of your sonnets to breach
the hard, baked earth under our feet; release
a deluge to drown and revive this generation
who hasn’t learned the lessons of true freedom
fighters. Thus, we dug you up, mi amor,
—not once, nor twice, but three times.
We plowed your savage body for the lost
seeds—ravaging your beloved white hills in
the dark, fertile fields of our longing. Now, forgive
us, the restless who deny you rest, as we unearth
you anew. For it is the time of tyrants once more,
mi amor. See the blood. See the blood in the streets.
See the blood, again, in the streets. See.