~ after Federico Garcia Lorca
Dear Federico, it is impossible
to shut all the balconies of the world
to the sounds of weeping. The angels
have been arrested as they crossed
the border, their wings torn off
and crumpled into sheets of tinfoil.
It is impossible to describe
the tears of the separated
though their weeping has been
recorded. In the distance, dogs
and sentinels limp from one
mile marker to another,
exhausted. And dear Federico,
a mother could not ever forget you.
Or a father. Or a grandfather.
Their cries make the sound
of hundreds of strings pitched
to breaking. Like you, all we hear
pouring over the balconies
is the sound of weeping.