Antonio Enrique Gomez

on the killing of Doña Lope da Vega

26 July 1644 in an Autodafe

Each time there was a show of faith, when death

ignited on the stage in flames of hate,

a romance birthed itself in Antonio’s breath,

and always  as he bided his time, a gate

of heaven opened up, reaching out to grasp

the secret words, drew them in, like buds

afloat in April, told until his gasp

could find expressions in a prayer—when blood’s

despair called out where Abel fell and soaked

into uncomprehending soil.  The smoke

was ebony and lingered on the square, then broke

the priestly exhortation, until the ire

in Antonio’s heart could purify the pyre.