Still singing in my cell
of succulents, staked by a man
who fled. Nothing personal.
How often I get that wrong...
I move on-

some man
is always fleeing, and that
is never personal. The longer
I go the fewer notes I need.
My torso a sort of hotel.
Martyrdom bores me.
My hook-ups a new flamenco-

will I be saved?
The peninsula tilts its goblets.
I am alone.
Wasn't I always?
Swifts fleck the dry grass.
By my absence you'll know me.


About This Poem
"This poem is in the voice of a person and a place. San Sebastian is the prettiest town in northern Spain, known for its film festival and lovely beach coves. Sebastian is also a common saint, associated with gay suffering, covered in arrows like a voodoo doll, and in nearly every church in Spain."
-Spencer Reece

About Spencer Reece
Spencer Reece is the author of "The Road to Emmaus" (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014). He is the national secretary for the bishop of the Episcopal Church in Madrid.

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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2016 Spencer Reece. Originally published in Poem-a-Day, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate