I should have known your cock was in that poem. But I wrote it so long ago. Before I came to Spain. Back when I thought we were fixed up forever. If bootleg scotch and hooch dancers couldn’t break us, what could? But I was alone last month when Lorca was murdered. And the month before when German planes roared above Madrid. And lonely with our friends without you last February when we communist Americans celebrated as Populists won the election.
That night we all read between dances, first shouting heroic odes of revolution. Then, after gallons of roja from La Mancha we fell onto couches sharing lovesongs. I was lonely for you, in strange night with friends from Manhattan amid ecstatic strangers. I ran to my room, found our old chapbook and returned. You remember, my love? My words and your pictures? I read then the poem that began on the ferry and ended with the throb of your prick in my hand, blushing with the forgotten words in my teeth.
But the happy radicals laughed and applauded, cheering on my love and my language. And then the handsom leftist wobbled to his feet. The eyes of all on him, he raised the bottle high, shouting, “Reconozco ese pene.”
Would you be surprised, my dear, that political fervor dies out quickly, faced with older passion? And that I did not mourn when I heard Franco’s bullets had torn to memory the famous poet of blood?