If you were to enter the house

even today, through the tall church-like wooden door

and look to your left

there, in the parlor, is Lorca’s piano.

It still matters that Lorca was killed—still

matters that a few years earlier

when Lorca left the U.S.

he was exhausted, mystified

he wrote poems against racism, capitalism

using more than once

the word, vomit.

The piano stands, perhaps, where it’s always stood.

Like a sweating bull it glints

in the sunlight; its silence

the black moon of the murdered.