John Biscello

“The duende . . . Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents; a wind with the odor of child’s saliva, crushed grass, and medusa’s veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.” — Federico Garcia Lorca

Prayerfully

wresting the nightsong

from dark wind

tasting

lips,

she, bewitched,

annoints and rivets

the god-sworn wound,

its rose an excruciate

impossible to bear

without ceremony.