Last Night Lorca
Sometime late at night, maybe in a village or in a city,
they will come.
You’ve spent your life avoiding these two men. When
they arrive you will have just begun to relax from some
labor or some unpleasantness.
They knock at your door and you bid them enter and
entertain them with formalities – until a camera advances
the action of your body being thrown against excuses.
They will say they just want some information. But your
time in the land of the living is growing short because they
think the pounding of your heart beats against them.
And why did they come for Lorca?
They came because you allowed them to come – because
your need of comfort quieted your outrage and silenced
They came because the insomnia your questions once posed
were opiated by convenience; because your dreams seemed
so much harder to believe in.
Expect them. They will come. And they will bring your
neighbor hastily pulled from a bed to swear testimony
And now you are just like the great man Lorca, being
driven in a car late at night – except you are lonely without
the poverty of poetry.
In the morning –
After breakfast and the comfort of a smoke, an interrogator
with manicured nails slips a fresh piece of paper into a typewriter,
and turning to you ask you to begin your confession again.