Black
The hundred riders dressed in black bemuse
The orange groves, arthritic olive trees
And Andalusia. Horsemen give no clues
Except that black and so the peasants’ freeze.
At least the bones in chests near hot air hearts
Congeal until the entourage is gone,
Perhaps much longer. Maybe ice-shaped darts
Were flung. The riding throng moved like the dawn
Of death in noontime groves. Sevilla’s fields
Have long-time blood-scent memories down as far
As Christ’s Granada. Superstition yields
Rich crops from forcing Muslim ribs ajar.
A maze of crucifixes fills those chests,
Fills Islam with the Virgin’s black bequests.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Apr 15, 2025 | Uncategorized |