WHAT THE MOUNTAINS WON’T TELL YOU
The terraced valley returns to nature
After all the wars are concluded
And the tourists have gone home for the evening
A quiet wind that swirls around my head
Violently whips up images of a long lost era
That the modern age has yet to embrace.
The “cortado” leaves a nice foam on my lips
As I settle in to write my poem
The one I promised to write for two years
My first line reads, “Behind the Moorish Walls we kissed”
Whereupon the curtain stirs and the window opens
Calling me towards the Andalusian mountains
I press my ear against the wind, not a soul in sight
The high pitch becomes a sonic boom
A cry for help-a critical moment
Whether to intervene or return to my poem
How many stories do the mountains hold
For the fallen women of Spain
Who sing their songs of lament
Not for Jesus or a son cut down by war
Because they are married to an abusive husband
I’ve always wondered if the deep red of the mountains
Was clay or blood from domestic battles of the past
The thinking part is over and the screams vivid as ever
But to intervene would involve the police and a statement
The mountains can tell the stories better than I
Besides my poem awaits and the coffee is getting cold