Adam by Federico García Lorca

A tree of blood soaks the morning

where the newborn woman groans.

Her voice leaves glass in the wound

and on the panes, a diagram of bone.

The coming light establishes and wins

white limits of a fable that forgets

the tumult of veins in flight

toward the dim cool of the apple.

Adam dreams in the fever of the clay

of a child who comes galloping

through the double pulse of his cheek.

But a dark other Adam is dreaming

a neuter moon of seedless stone

where the child of light will burn.

Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphy

Subscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.

Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM.