Cordova

Cordova Hurt. So simple a word. Esther says in Cordova, dreams are like liquid, tangible, a colossus. So what? Fondness. That is what ends us. Ask Isadora. Isadora and her scarves. She knew. Her scarves leapt from that carriage door in search of something that would crush them. Isadora. So simple a name. And those constellations that bore witness to the slackening of her neck? They know us through and through, see everything we do. _____________ The night my grandfather died, they watched. An unthinkable number of years it must have taken them to see me. But there they were. Andromeda in her chains. And Cetus, you great brute, would have her devoured like the air of our final hour. You were there too Draco. Were you not hungry? Hercules needs those golden apples more than you know. The moment is now, Horologium whispered. I already know, I said. Latin tells me so. _____________ The wolf Lupus paused for that. Even Perseus took the time to pay his respects, refusing suicide. Days later, the funeral. They came again, eyes flickering like the vigils of the dead. Scorpius, Tulcana, Vulpecula. Even the shadows of memory must be tampered with, allowed to blemish our body. _____________ Light is not all that is needed, no matter what one thinks. The press of some unidentifiable clothing like Hiroshima ash. What is it from? The Cordova of youth knows, threatens to tell us all our life. The promised fields of ontology our fathers hinted at when we were still virgins. It is said that in the Plains of Asphodel, the dead eat flowers. Flowers here. Flowers there. Rooted in all of us, siphoning what we know, what we think we know, spiraling to blossom. _____________ And like a tape in constant reverse, I see the indigo-purples and greens of his eyes, newly closed, newly blessed. The sudden flash, the double exposure. The open curtain, the morning light, persisting, traveling impossible miles to show me the muted form of my grandfather. _____________ A week later, the burning came. The collecting followed. Then, the latch in my father’s hand opened, and out came the former him, exfoliating, purging me like soap. When I was young, I thought that if someone cut me, I would bleed ambrosia sweeter than honey. Later, the salt of some inner beach stung me here and here, showed me the mortality of youth. _____________ Somewhere, all of us will be minted on some giant coin, reading IT HAPPENED. At that hour, we’ll realize the nicest flowers we give, are to the dead. And the ones for the living? They’re nice too. But they tend to hunker forward, unable to remain erect, like tiny, crucified children.