him from the house. Granada homes huddled
in siesta, brief respite from day’s rage
of civil war. Next day he’d feed puddles
of blood, his limp body slumped on Fuente
Grande’s stark ground; then it would disappear.
Where the fascists buried him, none can say,
only suppose. Franco, slyly with fear,
would ban his poems and plays. Now his home,
Huerta de San Vicente, honors him --
white stucco museum where faithful come
to sense his spirit, recall his rhythms
of passion, phrases tight as leather gloves,
celebrate those drafts: Sonnets
of Dark Love.
Roger Armbrust
April 4, 2016
