Issue 226, Fall 2018
A few months back, we went down to Huelva
to clean our graveyard—condoms hung
from the saplings shooting up from the dead:
British fighter pilots mainly, and an American.
My bishop chainsawed brush and got welts
from the sap. I followed in a wheelbarrow.
Dressed in my clericals.
I think about my country and hope this reaches you—
as Lorca hoped his poems might reach us.
I think of Natalie’s son washing plates in the back.
I see those New Englanders brush crumbs away.
Sometimes I feel out of place, but then I think
of Katharine Lee Bates, a missionary to Spain
and closeted lesbian, who wrote our famous hymn.