After Reading Lorca

Now I see why words were invented,
why the cat in the window opens her eyes
why a long haired man limps by streetwise
in darkness, snow softly falling.

Now I know how to be forgotten completely
how to sleep alone with the deep songs
calling me, page by page, candles glowing,
cat in the window with moon eyes.

The falangists do not repent of their sins,
don’t suck the bullets back into their guns.
Nor do they care for guitar songs or gardens.
His body still slumps to the earth.

If I stopped the careless drum of my heart,
would the clock go mad on the wall?
Will the guard at the tomb move aside
and let me see deep into the animal brain?

The cat will sleep in the window until dawn
when I’ll rise from this bed to greet the sun.
If I step out then, into the mirrored world,
will the solid ground be able to hold me?

The cat knows, but she’s not saying a thing.

Geoff Collins: I have been writing fiction and poetry for a few years and have begun to have a few pieces published in journals such as Blue Earth Review, Willow Review and Main Channel Voices. I live with my wife and two daughters in Marshall, WI, where I work in the local schools.