Black bird burnt with the brim of the sun
Black milk spilt, but a man with a hat
is at it with his drink & paintbrush —
It's his sister's hair he is painting, he insists,
or a black German forest hiding snow,
or of an age long ago,
Black-haired Margarita reading Sita
on a ship in the Indian Ocean, on a Sunday,
Father Domingo lingered in her thoughts.
Black bird falling, fire-feathers falling black snow,
a breath smoking ash the powder tasted
black milk on the ground.
Black wings — inking its way on the deck.
Cigarette on her mouth,
ghost forcing himself out from the pipe-lamp
Black blood of a Spanish soldier
War was a Eucharist for black wine
to turn black milk,
The sour came from the sweat of
black-veiled mothers weeping
& from shopkeepers wiping
Their windows, these droplets from black soot.
Children grimed in black faces
spared from drinking black milk yet
Man with the sun above his head
is at it with his drink,
black milk —
He drinks & he drinks
from the black of dawn to the back at night
his paintbrush waiting for
Black oil paint to fall on blank canvas
& a black bird shadows above
By Miguel GarciaQLRS Vol. 18. No. 4 Oct 2019