“The Poet Speaks with His Beloved on the Telephone”
Your voice watered the dune of my breast
in the sweet wooden booth.
Toward the south of my feet it was spring
and to the north of my brow, flower of fern.
In the narrow space a pine tree of light
sang with no music of dawn, no seed bed,
and my cry caught for the first time
crowns of hope around the roof.
Sweet and distant voice poured out for me.
Sweet and distant voice I tasted.
Distant and sweet swooning voice.
Distant as a dark wounded doe.
Sweet as a sob in the falling snow.
Distant and sweet lodged within the marrow!
Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca was a poet at the turn of the century. My lover described him as death obsessed, and she was so good as to send me a few poems after a lovely conversation. I love the poem above. It hits exactly the tone I feel about her when she calls me.