Mojácar
Gypsy Ballad
after
Lorca
Blue how you’ll ride me blue.
Blue hair. Blue mouth.
Hips on the bed,
crickets on the screen.
With chest of night,
he sleeps on his arm,
blue belly, flanks dark blue,
and his eyes, mud-gold.
Blue how you’ll ride me blue.
Beneath the sweating cloud,
someone is calling to him
but he can’t hear.
Blue how I’ll ride you blue.
Small beads of rain
fly up with the fireflies—
the eyes of midnight are opening.
The almond tree sways in
the blue wind with its
blue-lobed fruit, and the cactus,
guardian of his blue pain,
prickles his skin in the damp wind.
But how will he come? From which
direction following which blue map?
Still he rests his head on his hand,
his blue belly, flanks dark blue.
Hips on the bed.
-- Sharon Dolin
Mojacar, Spain
