Alhambra
Renato, a midday sun shines straight
down over us as we stroll up the hills
& down stony footpaths. I am holding
your left hand. This is only a few years
before my own stroke. Laren, you walk
behind us, photographing 12 o’clock
in the labyrinth. I hear slashing swords
& snorting of warhorses & can still feel
how they rode the air, strong back legs
thrusting out to clear a path of battle
around them. Moorish tactics sprung
down through blood, honor, to birth
habit & folk songs. An eight-pointed
star within an eight-pointed star. We
were under a bronze noontime, step
for step, as if to make one whole man.
I heard Langston translating Blood
Wedding, saying each earthy trope
truer than Lorca’s king of Harlem,
grapes & oranges called into their
ripening. Yes, friends, sacred taboos
lived inside a fiery glory & splendor.
It began before gunpowder, before
crescent insignias turned to crosses.
Was a run of bulls rain-polished black
motorcycles climbing adjacent hills?
