After Lorca
and Neruda and some poem
that scrolled away on Instagram
For Renee Nicole Good
The sun was orange, a burning tambourine
when they gunned the poet Lorca down
far from Sacramonte. They could not kill
duende, that tremor in the earth beneath their feet
songs older than the Sultans or the Reconquista.
His soul took flight like torn paper leaves, across
all borders, and took possession of the world.
His words stand taller in time than any graven
image of Franco in the Valley of the Fallen.
The Murdered Poet
About Me
Mark Folse is a provincial diarist and aspiring minor poet from New Orleans. His past blogging adventures included the Katina/Federal Flood blog wetbankguide on blogspot.com which David Simon told NY Magazine was one of three blogs that helped inform Treme, and Toulouse Street–Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans, which once outranked the Doobie Brothers on Google Search. His work has appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The New Delta Review, Metazen, New Laurel Review, Ellipsis, What We Know: New Orleans as Home, Please Forward, The Maple Leaf Rag IV, and A Howling in the Wires (which he co-edited).
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Well Bottom Blues 
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