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JOURNEY- 1995

Weren’t we hauling ass?
The sheep, the olive trees, sentinel windmills,
the woodlands and fields, the rivers, the creeks,
the undulating topography like the musical score
of a landscape melody riding on the rhythms of
a percussion ensemble of steel wheels and rails,
the white-light blue sky of Castilla-LaMancha
blowing by us like a film on fast forward
Draped over his seat, easing into sleep,
his form and demeanor were a narrative sculpture,
a cold rocky coast of beauty and grace chiseled
by storms so far out to sea that no one can see
and even at rest his body  was somehow too fluid
for his clothes

Once envied and loved, he had learned hard
lessons, had crafted his life as a righteous
extension of his parents’ investment in a labor of
love, forged a hard resiliency in recurrent encounters
that had blistered his soul but melted his anger with
the purifying precision of a refiner’s fire on the 
Day of the Lord
And he’d discovered a woman who wore long
loose dresses on a classical body, who painted her
toes, worked magic in the garden and rekindled his
love like renegade lightning in a drought-stricken
wood 
As train moved south, the bright day receded,
and as the September moon dropped cool silver
light like a fine lace mantilla through the craggy
brown summits of the Sierra Morena,
I thought of my friend as like the big locomotive
that pulls the “Garcia Lorca” from Barcelona to
Granada: A powerful presence regardless of
conditions, quiet, electric, always at your service!

Emanuel Carter

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