For Federico Garcia Lorca

[smokingboot]

THE SACROMONTE VALENTINE
Sacromonte, Sacromonte
Don’t take your purse or phone,
take cash in your pockets
And don’t go by yourself.
But the poet won’t listen
She is full of red wine
and all she hears are footsteps
footsteps to Sacromonte

Sacromonte, Sacromonte
her hands unfurl stories
bird bright, reptile supple,
taut as a new drumskin
Her feet move and shout
and others move too
Wood and wineskins keep time
in the smoke of Sacromonte

Sacromonte, Sacromonte,
His smile is a bullet
She screams and is woken
with laughter and coffee.
‘In Sacromonte she dreamed
of Lorca the poet.
Where is she now that
she dreams of Sacromonte?’



© Debbie Gallagher 14th February 2015