a poem by Carl Boon

After Barcelona, after Masses
at Santa Maria’s and the boys

who peeled oranges
on the cathedral steps,

she came home to find
her father hadn’t changed at all—

same blue pajamas, same head twisting 
at the President’s speeches.

Nothing had changed,
except, perhaps, for her, who’d discovered

difference—a shield of hymns,

the Gospel sellers 

on Robador where girls twined

orange stems into silk.

She’d gotten used to
the mystery of rising, life

in death, the sapphire

Mediterranean at Sitges in the morning.

Her father read the news,
stirred lemon in his tea,

and would not move
when she said the earth was moving

fast, away from him, and that perhaps

his God was not enough.

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