Three days from Granada
The forearm of sky is in my throat.
I left Granada three days ago.
A blood sky dissolves the sugar lump sun.
Shadow walks on my back with the feet of birds.
I remember: your hands in my hands, resting.
Days move. I do not move. Wake up in me.
Lorca’s tongue is in the ground.
Dust paints all faces until they are yours.
On the valley floor, a man’s voice cuts
upwards towards me, from beneath Iglesia Santa Ana.
In another country you are lying in bed
dark lashes moving clockwork against your cheeks.
Petra Kamula graduated from the UEA Creative Writing MA in 2011. Her poems and short stories have most recently appeared in Poetry Review, Magma, Lighthouse and Cordite. She is currently based in Sydney, Australia.
Twitter – @petrakamula