{ Francisco Aragón: To Madrid. }

[delga]

To Madrid
by Francisco Aragón

July 20, 2005, Madrid


Little more than a six-letter word
on a globe for some twenty years

is what you were. And then I walked
hours and hours that

sweltering first day. In you
I have felt lonely and most

alive. From one of your cafés I hear
jackhammers, horns. Your pages

are open and spread on marble,
El País giving news of the living,

the dead: a first marriage (you're
suddenly the freest state

on earth); London burying her own.
That morning, a year ago,

waking to radio reports of your
mangled commuter-trains

a hint of what you are rose
in me. Calls, e-mails, calls.

More than any other
visit these years, I see

that you are not, really,
part of my past.