This Birthday of García Lorca

His body was never found.
The world continues to weep
as his ghost hangs over his
voracious lines.
         I tell him every day
how his moons, his gypsy tongue
renew my life, fill the want
left by the flat pancake poetry
making the rounds today.
         The look
like the hurt of a stone beats,
hovers in the heart, far more
than plain-speak that cheats
the longing for luster.
        Let me
follow the fish that swam
into the moon so that the rise
and fall of bodies know living,
know dying, unwrapped from
too innocent snow.











Peggy Aylsworth is a retired psychotherapist, 94, living in Santa Monica, CA. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals throughout the U.S. and abroad, forthcoming in The Wallace Stevens Journal. Her sixth book of poetry is soon to be published by Letters At 3Am Press.