The rolling road to Cordoba cuts through
the scratch of olive trees hugging sheepless hills,
past Garcia Lorca’s birthplace. No cows.
Only Mother’s milk, then, mixed with oil of olives,
asparagus and apples to loosen a prodigious tongue –
works that wither in translation, loosing cadences,
expressive hands, passion
Outside a road-side cafe at the edge of Luque
there’s a boredom of children lazily kicking a tin
in dry dust. Old men sit with faces crumpled
against fierce sun. Drool-end fags and trousers
are rolled. Cigarettes despite shortness of breath,
blackened teeth; the trousers to accommodate
the shortening of legs
There are clothes behind the cafe flapping
in the bleaching white heat. But where are
the invisible ones – the women who make
the world go round? The baking, the washing,
the nurturing of young Fredericos,
mopping up after the old, killing cockroaches,
releasing butterflies?