Siesta
Oh people not mine
what is it we can hear
the old custodian
coddles the tin box
in the empty church
the ex-monk clips
his lime tree just so
my soiled skin flensed
from my uniform
Jesus said to them
oh ye of little faith
Ayamonte is golden
the sun rakes over us
meticulous and slow
a mutt with cataracts
licks its parts ticking
Portugal lies exposed
on her soft cheap cot
passive and docile unlike
that bull that is Spain
the sea’s lips scold me
in that Spanish way
gentle and yet firm
nothing here is mine
Copyright © 2019 by Spencer Reece. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 30, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
“I began this poem in the south of Spain one hot summer day, in a little town called Ayamonte. Siesta is such a religious sacrosanct act here in Spain and I wanted to memorialise it. Also my poetic Spanish hero Antonio Machado wrote a poem once with this title, and I think of him so often here and wonder what he'd think of Spain now so I wanted to summon him to my table.”
—Spencer Reece
Spencer Reece
Spencer Reece is the author of The Road to Emmaus (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014).