José Jover Tripaldi, After the Death of García Lorca
Even now, the olive trees
point their accusatory limbs at me,
but I am not the one who shot him.
I am the one who comforted him the night
before he died, the one who brought him cigarettes
and coffee, a copy of El Granadino,
the one who talked to him about poetry—
the hidden beauty of Góngora and Los Soledades,
and when no one else would tell him
what was going to happen, I am the one
who gave him the truth: I told him
he would die in the morning.
I alone listened to him recite the prayer
his mother taught him, the same prayer my mother
taught me: en los brazos de Dios, no lloraré,
and at dawn, I am the one who walked him
to his grave, the one who held his shaking hands
when he gave his final confession.
No, I am not the one who shot him,
but the one who asks forgiveness.
Even now, the olive trees . . .
