Barcelona
During the night I play dead
for 6 hours or so, my last rites sung out
by drunken voices on the Rambla.
There is a wine spot in my dreams,
which always seem to take place at
the end of my second cousin’s quinceañera.
You’re always there – of course you are –
your folded thighs, two dry countries,
while your smile builds cities.
I wake thinking of the desecration of Spain,
and in my head steel timpani
tumble bricks in washing machines.
I could’ve been an unsung martyr
or an alluring statistic, so I give you my love:
3 bunches of tulips for €5,
bought from a stall near here
while the inebriated mourners gathered
under my window to pay their final respects.
thomas dedola
Thomas Dedola is a poet and short story writer. His work has been published in Felan, Nine Muses Poetry, Panoplyzine, Cathexis Northwest Press and the Poetry Kit.
From Milan, Thomas currently lives in Cambridge.
Plus!
