I am walking to Montjuic
with midnight in my hand.
I expect she will kiss me
long after the flamenco
dancers leave.

The sky runs away
from something up there
in Barcelona. I watch the clouds
and wonder who is their enemy.

I leave two euros and a lock
of my hair in a ditch
on the playa. This is my tomb,
no doubt I will be dead
when I leave this country.

I watch the castle sitting
like a humming mother
from a window on
She makes eyes
at me.

I write my name
on the wall of a dollhouse
when the lightening strikes.
This is the way we stay alive.

I touch the head of a gargoyle
and a black bird lands beside
my fingers. He admires
my bone structure, and I
offer him bread. He will be
at my bedside until there is
no bedside, no sand or sea.

About the author

Lisa Marie Basile, a Brooklyn-based poet and writer, is the founding editor and publisher of Patasola Press. She reads poetry for Weave Magazine, performs…

Read the full bio

Issue 13 · September 2011

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