He is as the rocks of Compostela. Broken by the drills of construction.
Workers heaving under the sun. Sweating their thighs like cattle.
In a salt cure ala mechado.
They gazed at him with desire. The men of the valley of rocks.
He was smooth and undiscovered. Proper in his gabardine.
He is quarry and fair game.
He is as the bells of Tamil Nadu. Hung, prized and paraded.
Rung to a hollow prayer. Heard intermittently in the night.
The women listened, gasped.
The men of the congregation. They craved for his slender body.
They confessed of the weakness of their faith. The sweetness of their sins.
The novel delight of their wives.
He is as the furnace of Odeillo. The hog casings of Lucania.
The snake wine at Huaxi. The men of the lakes of Axis Mundi.
He is the first immortal.
Broken but not hurt. Fagged but not regretting.
The pleasure of fissure. The pain of the first.
Kiss from Compostela.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
December 30, 2013