White Lilies (after Lorca)

after Lorca

Woe, woe, woe;

fallen star of heaven.

The streets fill with silence

and towels catching the wind.

In the open morning

you reach the corners of the sky –

torch-bright apple flesh,

dust bloodying your bells.

Daylight lingers in your throats,

choking each unfolding face.

Snow-beaten hydra: another tongue,

a bleeding anther.

If Christ died for sinners,

are the honest free or damned?

I shall come clean – deadhead me,

dig my roots in promised land.

Woe, woe, woe;

fallen star of heaven.

The streets fill with silence,

towels catching the wind.