Poetry. Barcelona, by Thomas Dedola. Image: the silhouette of a sleeping man in the foreground. In the background, a light silhouette of the skyline of 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.

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