WHEN POETRY COULD GET YOU KILLED
I like to pound on the typewriter
and pretend I’m hearing
gunshots in an almond orchard,
the bullets unbuttoning
the poet’s white shirt.
I spend a lot of time wishing
we lived in an age when writing
poems could get you killed
instead of getting you
a tenure-track job.
But then I think of Lorca
leaning on the shovel,
breathless in the sunlight,
up to his waist in his own grave,
almond blossoms in his hair.
I like to pound on the typewriter
and pretend I’m hearing
gunshots in an almond orchard,
the bullets unbuttoning
the poet’s white shirt.
I spend a lot of time wishing
we lived in an age when writing
poems could get you killed
instead of getting you
a tenure-track job.
But then I think of Lorca
leaning on the shovel,
breathless in the sunlight,
up to his waist in his own grave,
almond blossoms in his hair.