The Andalusian Dog Finds Answers

God likes to be played like a piano.
Dawn glows with sailors dancing in the eye of a storm
by the river of black water. These days
things make sense under the green and yellow
and brown sky of Granada and I wear a tie as penance
for the sins of my navel. The saints of the north
and the saints of the south fly by dropping scorpions
down my neck and those women
with fire in their eyes drink melon juice and wink.
I play billiards on the other side of town
thinking bone in and bone out is the legacy of canines.
The camouflage, the hunt, the war of ice and water.
God knows. He clinks all day and night.
Fly me to the moon. Yes, I’d rather be sleeping.
A slender, tender rain comes over Granada
and the storm passes and the city sighs.


Copyright © 2017 by Pablo Medina. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 9, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“It is said that the title of the 1929 surrealist film Un chien andalou (An Andalusian Dog) by Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel was an indirect and none-too-kind reference to Federico García Lorca, the third point of that creative triangle, who was born just outside the Andalusian city of Granada. The sigh in the last line refers to the Moorish King Boabdil, who sighed deeply as he abandoned Granada to the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492.”
—Pablo Medina