Chris Pellizzari

★ ★ ★ ★


Image by Rafael Rodrigues

The Olive Tree in Granada where Lorca is Buried at Night

Olive tree branches trust no person, only their fingers.
We are suspicious of each other. 
I do not dare touch.
I see the olives gently spin in the breeze like a mobile
over an infant’s crib. 
I’m tempted, but I do not touch.
I feel like I am inside a womb and the mother is not mine. 
I am not ready to come out. 
I was never a child.
I was too aware of myself.
Lorca was never a child.
He never had a child. 
Neither will I.
Perhaps he and I shared the same womb.

His gitano child lullabies still flow through the roots of this tree 
from his mouth without a tongue 
to the pits of the olives the birds have scattered at my feet.
This is what love is for people like us. 

The horizon cautiously dresses her child for the day in a gray dress she will grow into.
I was never a child. 
Lorca was never a child. 
We will have no children, only their lullabies. 
This is what love is for people like us.

Chris Pellizzari is a poet from Darien, Illinois. His work has appeared in Hobart, One Art, SoFloPoJo, Third Wednesday, Gone Lawn, Slipstream, Ligea, Tipton, The Lake, and many other literary magazines. He is a member of The Society of Midland Authors. Pellizzari often writes about the gay poet Federico Garcia Lorca. He thinks Lorca has a lot to say to today’s America regarding compassion and acceptance.


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