Bim Bom

Delisa and I picked grapes from the granada vineyards.

i imagined them the same fields Lorca wrote his 1,000 poems to the moon.

i imagined that moon was the same he sang to in the arms of his lovers,

before the civil war took his tongue.. 

We had one more glass of wine, and another, our teeth baby beets.

Delisa reads me his words first in spanish and then in my own tongue for a diluted version of Frederic's hallucinations.   

an entire summer we chased eachother through the grape vines,

an entire summer we wore no shoes.

we drank red wine and named the stars as though they were our children.

we knew they were offspring of the moon and the ocean,

yet as the words of Lorca became ghosts tangible in the june wind

so did my bond with Delisa.  On the summer solstice my love for Delisa and my infatuation with the idea of Delisa came together at the hip and sambaed their way into a destined conception.  Her father called it a bastard... out of a love he'd never known a baby was born.

 Words by Chris Hess.  Photo by Sadie Myers.