Federico Garcia Lorca's sister visited him in jail the night before his execution. They will not kill you, she promised. But the poet knew better. I dreamt last night of the moans of pregnancy crying within Gypsy cave mouths gagged with cement. The olive tree was chopped through, but it waited for me to fall first. But Granada will not kill its greatest poet, she said. He held her hands through the bars to comfort her. I am already dead, he said. I saw my killers eat dried fruits inside trucks, veinless delicacies that did not bleed over their fingers. I heard the wet cypress breath heavy with his mouth open outside the window of barren serenades. I felt the wind kick my ribs to see if I was dead before stealing my boots. One killer washed his neck in a fountain, a fountain who's secrets I knew once by heart. No, Federico, they will not kill you, his sister pleaded. But the poet knew better.