I found myself in Federico Garcia Lorca’s homosexual bow tie and kind face, as he sat perched meaningfully in front of me, observing me casually as his New York City depressive brilliance bursts against my own gut and slaps me across my bewildered face, bruising and torturing my inadequacy.
I vomited in my own mouth, tasting the sour bitter of his sweetness- crocodiles and monkeys and unicorns, Oh my! Federico, you’d give Dorothy a run for her money.
I cry for Federico. Because he cried for wounded elephants, and denounced the chaotic assembly of trains and the diseased bustle of New York.
I ran from the bashing London rain that rains absurdly every minute of every day and instead ran into Federico’s arms. I cry for his untimely death, his bashed skull his pleasant demeanor, his crippling depression, his escape to Havana, his mountains and seas. You are the Poet in New York and I am the Envious Spectator in London, finding comfort in your Spanish tongue that blazes of heat and magic.
They buried you anonymously in a mound because you had all the answers.