When Writing Poems Could Get You Killed
I used to like to pound the typewriter
keys and pretend
I was hearing gunshots in an almond orchard,
the bullets neatly unbuttoning
the poet's white dress
shirt, this back when
I used to spend a lot of time wishing
we lived in a time when writing
poems could get you killed
instead of getting you a tenure-track job.
But when I think of Lorca
leaning on the shovel the fascists gave him
to dig his own grave, out
of breath from digging his own grave,
when I think of Lorca I think
what was I thinking?