Cordoba

Twisted pillars.

Strong arms shaking

under the pressure

of a confused fresco.

A dome with an identity crisis.

-

Death was her final husband.

A sacrifice made

for eternal Sundays spent in bed.

Where she could

eat letters for breakfast

and choke on chimney smoke for lunch.

Only after life came her first real lay.

Hands more calloused than all this jagged brick.

Now finally she relaxes

in sanctified marble.

Stone that has eaten body

and been bathed in the fresh blood

of some poor farm animal.

It's easy for her to remember

the quiet grey simplicity

of the city she used to stare upon.

Back then.

She would name strangers.

She would walk to the river

and give voices and personalities

to all the playing dogs.

She would go home and swallow letters,

chew words until she spat ink.

-

Now under the comfort

of pillars reaching for heaven.

In the shade of a giant stone umbrella.

She kisses Death's forehead

every night

and wakes up every morning

to his pure, loving smile.