Federico García Lorca
Solidaridad screamed out from posters and stamps
that carried snapshots of the dead poet’s face.
We still haven’t found his body.
He said we never would.
They tortured him first,
taunted him for being homosexual:
trussed him up, laid him face down,
then shot him, for a joke, in the offending area.
It didn’t take him long to die.
When he did,
his body was dumped in some way out ossuary.
But first they carved the bullets out of his corpse,
three from around the anal tract,
keeping them as souvenirs.
Later that night, Fascists, drunk,
laughed uproariously in their favorite bars.
They dropped the bullets into their wine
and drank to the re-establishment of law and order.
Next day his friends were put to death.
Waverers were soon convinced by bullets
lodged at the base of another’s skull …
fine arguments …