Tell Me, Neruda, But Do Not Tell Lorca

I remember;

I remember.

Do You ?

The brick red wall

upon which you leaned

that would hurt like blood

i joked and said,

it was my hurt my wound

all that red colour on your head

I remember; I remember

Won't you ? Try even,

won't you ?

the red ants fighting with

the honey bees drinking honey

and falling dead; honey honey

all around

like your beautiful breasts

the breeze uncovered

like hidden fruit ripening

upon the pomegranate trees

where we took shelter

in a little rain that pressed us

to be closer so you would

not catch a cold;

remember, remember

the cold you caught

the bitter cold

from which to this day

Tell me, Neruda,

but don't tell Lorca.

Who told you want to be you

what the spring does

with the cherry trees?

She?

She wouldn't tell me.

Tell me Lorca,

but don't tell Neruda

why, when you died

did you want to be laid on the balcony?

She?

Was it that you wished to see her still ?

Funny isn't she?

She opens an umbrella  of sorrow

and how much inside

she pours

all yesterday

and tomorrow?

And, tell me Neruda,

why will you

write the saddest poem for her?

don't tell Lorca.

And Lorca,

don't tell Neruda,

of the sounds of guns

pealing away like laughter

and each eye closing,

with only her

inside.