Oh Lorca, did skeletons show
gold teeth to you
when men held you down
in their terrible passion,
thrust the rifle deep in your bowels,
fired into your intestines?
Or did you recall the balcony
opening to the summer mountains,
and see the boy suck oranges
as the harvester cut down the corn?
And could you taste a sailor’s kiss
in that black grove of olives?
Before the last explosion of blood,
did you remember love?