Federico Garcia Lorca
Your orange tree.
Muscular arms offer fruit you try to drink, but the juice runs down your chin as old women on their way to church prod you with their canes.
Your Gypsy woman.
She blows in the ear of the soldier who will shoot you a cold wind from the snow on the mountain, while slipping her blacksmith scolding iron hand down his trousers melting the pistol’s hammer.
Do you see your death in his eyes or tail? Heads, death? Tails, immortality?
Your room at the Rosales house.
You hide here from the Fascists, a padded room with no furniture, but you bang your head against a piano for a Mozart lullaby to seduce the hounds to sleep.
Your Salvador Dali.
He melts a clock over your head and the long finger and thumb holding the egg also holds your testicles, feeling for lumps of dead oranges.
About the writer:
Chris Pellizzari is a graduate of the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His work has appeared in numerous literary magazines including Good Works Review, Counterclock, Ink in Thirds, and Schuylkill Valley Journal. His novella Last Night in Granada (ReadLips Press) recently received a great review from Kirkus Reviews. He is a member of The Society of Midland Authors and is assistant editor at The Awakenings Review.