Federico and Salvador
inside the poet’s clasp
arrives a cold egg
that feels like frost
on a spring morning
in Cadaqués
suddenly a
grieving bird
interrupts the
symphony of
scoring and
scratching
of plush reds
and fresh-plucked
olives that scrub dawn
clean from the canvas
the poet glimpses
the painter’s brow
as it weeps or melts
protruding like a lighthouse
from the canvas
one might discern
from a reflection
in the landscape window
the painter holding
a palette of grapes
more birds discharge
a salvo of twitters
overwhelmed
by the deepening
sorrowful chirrups
disrupting his pose
the poet tilts his head
for a better listen
and the painter
would have it so
beyond the window
Andalusia’s come
with its cante jondo
a harvest of bloods
war-torn and jubilant
the painter
materializes
beside
his canvas
wearing castanets
with which he gouges
his love’s
earthen cheeks
accompaniment to the birds’
and lovers’ rejoinder of trills
