Pale Shiksa Poem by Pasha Satara

Ai, Lorca,
when the moon is sweating on the bed
I will borrow hard
the cry of sand and footsteps
and listen, listen -
everyone is walking away.

L.Cohen, are you torn where the blood dances blue
from the last waltz in Vienna?
You thin gypsy thief -
do not kiss me anywhere;
the dew is frost upon my thighs.
You have thrown everything away for Lili Marlene
and she is never coming back.

Ai, Lorca,
when Picasso knelt before you,
did the moon sweat then?
Your passion hung on a wood post fence
........... slain.

Ai, Lorca,
how did your hummingbird cry?