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"scrubbed"

Because the moon will come again,

and she will need a way in.

She will look for the sheets,

for the hand‑marks in the sand,

for the trace of the one she tucked-in 

             just the night before.

At five in the afternoon —

the hour Lorca marked as the hinge of death —

the world stands still,

the sky refuses to answer,

and even the moon cannot find the body 

              she once held.

And somewhere beyond the forge,

beyond the balcony,

beyond the hour,

the poet disappears into the same silence

poets name so precisely —

a silence the moon won't break,

     perhaps God won't either.

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