Lorca viene por la puerta y le pido
que se queda
qué hay ciertas cosas que en la noche se pueden discutir
cómo el resplandor de la luna
y la partida de amores que llenaron la copa
O cómo cada copla puede ser escrita bajo
los escombros de la noche
bajo los luceros que conjuran el nacer de la mañana

he sets the phone on the music stand it is tilted
so I get to see  half guitar, half chin
and a left hand sliding like an elegant dancer over
the frets of his classical guitar,
it has got L.A in it ,
east L.A,
Candela's east l.a  to be precise

Segovia, Bach, Buckley,  my wish to hear flamenco are  all
tucked under the sweat of his brow
when he is done with each piece
the world ends but when he smiles
and asks "what do you think?" it begins
again our chatter , fast spitty and through a smart phone

a lime bursting
cascaron agrio I bite
where is the mescal
and motown at 2:00 am

When you ask me if I have ever tried a burrito,  I should sprint to the bedroom grab a cover and completely wrap myself in it and then proceed to run towards you screaming “yes!”
immediately followed  by
“But she did not cook it. I got it at Chipotle “ sung in legato just to make sure none of us make it out of this situation without feeling uncomfortable

My world is not shiny, in fashion
or trendy
it belong to the slowness
of revision in a tiny room
alone with my hand over
a piece of paper
the cup of tea close to me is
a pool of fragrant words ready for alchemy
the blanket a sweet resting
spot where I  “San Francisco- burrito” myself  until I am completely  wrapped in it.

I, too am a happy temporary
stem with hands and legs
close to the ground with petals reaching
towards the sun

They come to the cemetery bring their chairs, the rose crowns and the whimsical  smiles  
five years have quickly  passed indeed gutting the closeness of skin
and deep stitching  the ones their cloth to the cloth she was buried within
death does not separate it brings  together
they are woven now with the same thread