Had the metropolitan afternoon not bored him, the lack of sea air and pure sun not made him long for Andalusía, or Ángel Flores—intellectual of the rich port—not had a remedy, the poet in New York might never have crossed the East River to engage in a conversation that, had language not been a barrier, went like
sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox
1 Samuel 17:56
The field soldiers remember the triumph,
a lithe boy’s naal on the head of giant,
before the king rode through the ranks
to inquire about his parentage or the prince
had him bathed, his hair scented with sweet herbs.
After the crowds dwindled, because neither
one’s cunning nor the adulation of the victorious
are nourishment, and the battle, having made him
hungry, alone and in silence, the boy
slowly ate the brain of the giant.
A stripling, to tell the truth, the boy grew—
mad with the taste—savored the giant brain
and learned its ways, became a giant,
begat giants, who craved and ate all
the people in the land, except their own.