~ after Lorca I too want to go down to the well, but I don't want to find a heart like a pin- cushion in the green water, looking up at the walls from which it fell. Today we are all wounded. We carry our sadness like cups through the rooms, looking for a basin not yet full. Today we are waiting to receive a sign that doors do open, that we have not been abandoned to death, that our hunger to be seen will be fed. I will use the needle to unstitch a tight seam, and the pitcher to irrigate the sudden parched flowers. Who of you are still talking about luck? Tomorrow's wound has not yet arrived. Let it spout its promises as if we haven't learned to believe.