Los Fusilamientos del 3 De Mayo En Madrid* — A Poem by J.G. Sandom

 

"Will you take me then,

pluck me like a faded flower from a branch?"

"Perhaps."

"Will you open up my head,

cleave it as my father chops a sheep?"

"It doesn't matter."

"And what of my wife, Maria?

Will she lay dried wreaths along this hill?"

"Perhaps."

 

"Born;

and then the midwife's hands around me;

crushing roaches at the table;

and my sister's drowning;

my uncle beating, beating me;

and the little yellow wheel-barrow;

and cutting my first calf on the slaughterhouse floor;

and Maria's breasts, creamy and soft,

suckling the child that never was,

nor will be.

What of them?"

"Into the earth.

Into the wet red earth."

 

"Born;

and the miners' hands, sweaty and hard;

carried on the donkey's back;

melted in the furnace heat;

molded, turned and round;

hanging from the soldier's belt;

gunpowder bed,

sleeping in the barrel of a gun.

What of me?"

"Into the earth.

Into the wet red earth.

With you.

In you."

 

* Goya 1746-1828
  Museo del Prado

 

New Canaan, Connecticut ~ 1972