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.