Francisco Aragón

To Madrid

                  July 20, 2005, Madrid

Little more than a six-letter word
on a globe for some twenty years

is what you were. And then I walked
for hours and hours that

sweltering first day. In you
I have felt lonely and most

alive. From one of your cafés I hear
jackhammers, horns. Your pages

are open and spread on marble,
El País giving news of the living

the dead: a first marriage (you’re
suddenly the freest place

on earth); London burying her own.
That morning, a year ago,

waking to radio reports of your
mangled commuter-trains

a hint of what you are rose
in me. Calls, e-mails, calls.

More than any other
visit these years, I see

that you are not, really,
part of my past.


© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review