“That mysterious force that everyone feels yet no philosopher has explained.”
– Federico Garcia Lorca’s definition of Duende.
Childhood is overflowing, burning rough
into dim adulthood. Lovesick ghosts might
poke a hole, shelter your heart, kiss the scruff
of your neck. The dead often do despite
voices stating that they’re not there. Hidden,
like flame, like paper lanterns in the breeze.
Paper birds. Paper burns, leaving ruin
behind. Call that deep magic, what gypsies
still call, “Duende.” A child’s first heartbreak
knows it when it hears it. Nothing can heal
that flame. There is no exit, no logic,
no voice. Even now, adult, you feel ache,
that’s your birthright. All of life is surreal.
What you call pain and children deep magic.