It was a green Chimera Lorca fought in the fusilier yards—the mane
vermillion-tipped, the goat stench furious, eye-tearing.
Its tail stuck in a cycle of coiling and uncoiling, spooking the flies, the gnats;
making small, undulating circosanguinal waves.
Out of green hatred they shot him down like a dog; out of green hatred
they feared flimsy wristed gypsies. So big, so tough,
wild men—breaking twigs, slashing throats, falangistas, following their
orders to silence subversion. How did the poet achieve
the homo seduction of their girls into blood weddings? These colegas,
formerly of street corner guarrerías, half-lit fags dangling
on their thin lips, pinchy fingers crabbing at gamba heinies; the herd instinct
of the weak-minded turning each into bellicose Cerberuses.
It was the green ink of a fountain pen that authorized the firing squad’s
rippling ring fire dance—a sanguinary echo reverberating
through the pomegranate bricks of the Nasrid city. The green-clad fauns
twitchy and nervous in their aim; unknowing Charons of the
intelectual who dreamt of beauty and peace—of meadows, groves, sunlight,
fresh air—elysian fields. Oh Lorca, no astute Bellerophon
or Pegasus in sight to aid him, lost to the three-animal beast extirpating
esteemed Lycia. The green reflected in his flaring nostrils,
his Icarus wings slowing their beat—he faced them with the casual cool
of someone with much sangfroid, the bandana covering
his eyes but not his heart. The drunken power of these state-sanctioned
Hydras, beating at the doors, their carbines cracking thick
like manteca—el verde que tanto deseó. Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
Abel M. Folgar was born and raised in Caracas, Venezuala and currently resides in Miami, FL. His work has appeared in Hinchas de Poesía, LaFovea, Noble/Gas Quarterly and Sliver of Stone, among others.
Photography by: Jakob Owens
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