 Duelo a Garrotazos, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823 Duel While children, we battled with twigs off orange trees in bloom, kicking up dust in neglected patios, leaving playful welts scented bright and bittersweet. As we’ve grown, sweet and sickly mold baked in the sun, the same person severed to distant scowls across run-down bars.. We slipped, or I slipped, and through booze-stained breath we agreed for one final time. We dig up old wounds, deeper than before — blood on branches grown thick and calloused. As the sky turns away; the earth devours us as if already dead.  Dos Viejos Comiendos, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823 Two Old Men Eating Soup And, of course it took a while, yes, but now we’re fast friends. That’s always the way, isn’t it? Yes, I think so. Y’know, when I first met him, he was loud- mouthed as all hell! You can’t tell from the look of him now, can ya! So demanding, too… How time mellowed him out! Please take a seat, yes, and stay a while. I’m sure you’ll fit right in, eventually.  Dos Viejos, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823 Two Old Men Surely you feel him, right? You must feel his chin brush against your shoulder, feel his rotten breath as it blows past your ear and lingers in your sinuses, reeking of decades of decay. Your body threatens to convulse as you try not to move. What does he whisper to you? What secret is he sharing with you, and you alone? You brace yourself, both hands trembling on your cane. You try not to hear each ragged sound, the taunting lilt, drawn from the earth. Separate each syllable and try to ignore that he’s telling you something that you really should know by now. Fight against it, but how long can you really last? Listen to what he says -- After all, you are still learning.  Perro Semihundido, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823 The Drowning Dog And what do I look to as I drown? The sky turned away, offers nothing but bleak reflection: The ocean rising, a swelling sea that rises like a landless mount. The crowd of tides and currents and swells are shoving, jostling me, now one way, now another, never letting one have the advantage, pushed always back to the same plot (If I moved, would I know?), where land has abandoned me, where sun has refused to look, where the only welcome direction is down. I, low below the crest, am ragged and unweathered - disrolled. Still, my eyes are locked where torment meets the clouds, and I wait.  La Romeria de San Isidro, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823 Pilgrimage to San Isidro I. I walk onwards, stretching to the horizon. Thousands of feet amble in polyrhythm as I, amorphous, drift over hills and throng through valleys, leaving matted grass and litter behind. An argument breaks out between me — shortly silenced. I begin to play guitar. I complain, and I sing along. I cry out, rueful — I laugh in turn. Beyond hills, I continue. I play a crooked game of dice into a hat. I lose and argue, wine-fueled boasts and refutations flying from my lips. Smug, I take my winnings. I’ve developed this nasty habit of walking -- maybe for the sense of progress, or maybe just the fresh air. I tell me about how I heard from me (you know, always wearing that strange hat?) that I am meant to travel to some holy ground. A man apart stands before me. The fear in his eyes betrays the scowl on his lips. Why not invite him in? I strum with new vigor, augmented and out of tune. I sing, tracing the words of a well-worn hymn. I sing, mouth agape as I belt pitches that resemble some tavern ballad. I sing, armswide as I approach, always onward. II. At another time, I might have seen the dying leviathan and called it beauty. I might have seen a pleasant picnic formed from twisted limbs. I cannot see them anymore. — but maybe, maybe if you asked, I could tell you about the beautiful day it was, the way the fountain shimmered, and maybe even a story of rebirth. I could tell you about a group of travelers, amicable, set against the hills, the sun high above the chapel as pilgrims celebrate their arrival. I think, at one time, maybe, we could be made whole by water or sun. I’ve forgotten. Now, there is nothing that might heal, only a dying mind, a silence but for an overpowering song as it begins to rattle a guitar. It gets closer. It plays for me, I think. I hear nothing, but I understand. There is nothing left to do but sing along. Lucas Davis Originally from Macon, GA, Lucas Davis is an American poet living in Madrid, Spain. His writing tends towards ekphrastic poetry, and has appeared in Unstamatic, Healthline Zine, and others. He can be found at @Oddi_Teas on Twitter.
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The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
January 2026
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