La Rambla

Here’s the poem I contributed to Western, the arts journal published in association with Life Is Beautiful. The poem was inspired by my trip to Barcelona this summer. Special thanks to Shaun Christensen, Jarret Keene, Don Revell, Olivia Clare and my dad for reading it and providing feedback and to Sam Mc Mackin for publishing it.
La Rambla
How many storms(Arabs, Franks, fellow Spaniards)Can a stronghold weatherBefore opening wide its wooden gates,Scarred by spears and arrows,And falling at the feet Of its latest sovereign?
Cultures coalesce,Become difficult to distinguish. Trueloves are like this,Which is why I occasionallyConfuse you with her.
Or her.
Love is not the Po, Nile, or Ebro,But Mediterranean Sea.
Another argument Across the Atlantic.High, mud-swirl ceiling.Duffel bag buried beneath clothes.I slip into my sneakersAnd stagger out onto the streets.Mute, impotent, invisible—I know how you feltWhen you moved to the Meadows.
Nàpols and Mallorca.Sant Joan and València.Bailén and Gran Vía,Where Gaudí was run overBy a cable car.Assuming he was homeless,They left him sprawled on the street.He’s still there.I hear him bleating, As I cross against the lightAnd continue south.
Drifting down the Door of the Angel,Alone amid the crush,I spill onto the shore.The rising sunSilhouettes a family of fourFrolicking in the surf. Perched on a cloud,Columbus points toward the Gold Coast.The tourists stand in the sand And applaud,As the Santa MaríaAppears on the horizon.
Like a mythic mortal,I leered at beautyAnd sacrificed my sight.My marooned senses sharpen,As I navigate the side streets North:
Sea salt on my lips;The bakery, soap shop, smoke shop;A Catalan flag flaps in the wind.
Approaching La Rambla,I reclaim my perspective.
As I’m waking,You’re falling asleep.