Anyone would love to paint from memory
the bark of a plane tree in Barcelona
little geographies of burgundy turn to olive
before your very eyes or peel to that yellow
that pale cream of all the apartment rooms
in the Bronx
or write one proper grieving song for the girl
beautiful but burned in face and arm
smoke smeared into lifelong recognition
screaming in Catalan at the man who stands
before her who supplicates whose hands
brought together in supplication
beg for what
pimp lover father?
I say father because I’m old
and know how we beg the young to live
no matter what