Alhambra

Renato, a midday sun shines straight

down over us as we stroll up the hills

& down stony footpaths. I am holding

your left hand. This is only a few years

before my own stroke. Laren, you walk

behind us, photographing 12 o’clock

in the labyrinth. I hear slashing swords

& snorting of warhorses & can still feel

how they rode the air, strong back legs

thrusting out to clear a path of battle

around them. Moorish tactics sprung

down through blood, honor, to birth

habit & folk songs. An eight-pointed

star within an eight-pointed star. We

were under a bronze noontime, step

for step, as if to make one whole man.

I heard Langston translating Blood

Wedding, saying each earthy trope

truer than Lorca’s king of Harlem,

grapes & oranges called into their

ripening. Yes, friends, sacred taboos

lived inside a fiery glory & splendor.

It began before gunpowder, before

crescent insignias turned to crosses.

Was a run of bulls rain-polished black

motorcycles climbing adjacent hills?