In the green
morning I
wanted
to be a
heart. A
heart.
And at evening’s
end, I
wanted
to be my
voice. A
nightingale.
—LO(R)CA
She fell in
love. Poor
Juana.
Fell in love
with the
most
handsome man in
the kingdom.
How
did the Prince
requite her
love?
By betraying her
with every
woman
who simpered across
his path.
By
lashing a florid
sky across
her
skin. By cutting
her beautiful
hair.
Poor Juana—always
looking behind
her
stooped shoulders. How
her Prince
mocked
her, chilling her
tears into
multiple
strands of pearls.
Still, when
he
died, Juana went
mad. She
clawed
her cheeks and
confused dogs
into
whimpers, then howls.
She rode
throughout
Granada keening over
her Prince’s
coffin
in a gloomy
carriage pulled
by
eight horses. She
rode and
rode
with his stench
becoming hers
until
they both stunk
up all
of
Espana. She refused
to bury
him,
begging faces she
concocted from
receding
knotholes of trees
passed by
their
carriage, begging faces
she drew
by
connecting the stars
pockmarking the
irritated
night sky, begging
faces she
surfaced
from bonfire smokes
and crumpled
balls
of sodden handkerchiefs.
Her plea?
She
pleaded for his
resurrection.
Bah.
She pleaded as
if he
would
return to her
if he
came
to breathe again.
Bah. As
if
he once was
there for
her.
As if he
ever wrote
Poetry
for her. Now,
do not
misunderstand:
We gitanas adore
Juana The
"Crazy".
To honor her,
we cross
ourselves
and touch our
hair. We
honor
her because Juana
never faltered
from
living her Truth
even as
lies
snuffed the votive
lights in
her
eyes. Dame la
verdad. Poor
Juana.
Once, I stepped
into a
story…
I love Juana.
But I
loathe
her, too. Once,
I courted
madness
for Poetry. But
I punched
through
that blur—grew
back my
hair.
Does it matter
that its
harvest
now elicits snow?
I punched
through
that silver, shimmery
blur. Ole!
I
grew back my
hair! So
what
if Winter has
become my
veil?
I thought the
story was
mine…
I grew back
my hair.
I
love my refuge.
It veils
me
into believing that
when I
write
of Juana The
Mad, I
am
still young with
glossy, blue-black
hair.
That when I
write my
poems
Juana is a
subject and
not
the one releasing
the wind
that
flares my skirts
high to
reveal
absolutely furious footwork
—en compas—
conjuring
up the ghosts
of those
who
laugh at my
red eyes—
dark
angels who taught:
there is
no
madness. There is
only a
woman
brutishly in love.
Hear me
read
me singing to
You the
A.
The E. The
I. The
O.
The U. The
You. The
U.
And the Y.
Hear me
and
Juana dance! The
seduction of
flowers
blossoming into vowels.
Hear me
y
Juana sing the
machinegun blast
of
The A, The
I, The
E,
The O, The
U. Hear
us
die from the
Song of
Y,
the Dance of
Why? Listen
all
you nightingales! Why?
I curse
all
you nightingales! Why?
En compas/s!
I
thought it was
only a
story.
I thought the
story was
mine:
a bird caws
from my
mirror.
My mirror spits
out bloodied
feathers.
I love you
nightingales! All
of
you! Why, dear
nightingales? Why?
Y
WHY? Y WHY?
