Return to the Labyrinth.

Return to the Labyrinth.

Myronn Hardy


We drink glasses of beer.
I notice the bartender's hair  thistles
ready to break  drift.

On the small television we watch
the matador  his costume
seared in sunlight  thrust that mirror
  his sword  into the bull's back
already a sheet of red paper.

The tuna tapas we eat  wet balls of clay
quickly harden. The men at the counter
clap stuffing slices of ham in their
mouths  the cured meat
squeals down their throats.

We roam through the Albaicin in silence. The
orange trees bear green fruit. The heavy scent
of bitter olives
  relentless  my
grandfather's ghost.

We find a plaza  the Moorish walls
  ice white cooling away the day's heat.
      We sit
facing a fountain  its
spring  a dark mermaid gurgling.

The dogs stop barking  the old women draped
in floral cloth close their doors to bake bread.
The clothes hanging from the iron balconies
  tan chests wrinkling with
the release of wind. A half
moon illuminates the raven-slashed sky. I mistake
Venus for the North Star.

That Christmas I got the telescope
  I knew every star
and planet like other boys knew baseball. On
my tenth birthday  my mother drew
Saturn on my forehead  space getting
closer and closer. That same year I fell in love
with the girl who smelled of apples

  her braids clipped with barrettes.
She took me to her father's farm and cried after
her favorite calf  Emanuel  was slaughtered. I brought

her cups of water  butterscotch
in gold wrappers  and rubbed
her back until my hands
wove their way into the cotton of her shirt.

If she were here  kisses
would travel from forehead to lips.
I'd hold her hand
walking to Sacromonte.

How she'd spin in her
chrysanthemum dress
  how this path

   air
      stone

would lead

            on and on.

Myronn Hardy is a graduate of the University of Michigan and Columbia University. His first collection of poems, Approaching the Center, was published by New Issues Press in 2001.