The Delian Muse: Her Dark Sounds

All that has dark sound has duende.
Frederico Garcia Lorca

Her Dark Sounds

I am alone in the poem,
surrounded as by four walls
by love.
In this poem, I am a prisoner
of sound, and the memory of sound.

Songs already sung
flowing as dark water
deep underground
bang and whisper and growl,
shake the pipes,
drip from cold stone.

In this poem, I cannot forget the code.
Numbers squared and cubed
strange sequences
beamed in
from “an intelligence greater than our own:”
Such is the language of love.

And so I hear her speak that which I cannot name
to inquisiton,
to the bright and cruel.

But this poem is in the basement,
this poem is all black, forever.
My prayer is wholy silent,
as I keep my ear
to the floor,
listening,
listening,
for the deep thrum of her heart,

Mi corazon,
la duen’ de la casa.

 

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