When the moon was just beginning to rise—
he could smell the sea from a considerable distance,
a scene from the Mediterranean. Neruda,
lighting a smoke, the men
rolling their nets like their fathers before them.
I don’t know what he brought back on that cold December morning:
a ball of string, a cup of grass,
a flower blowing across the graves
when he was forced to leave his house
in the middle of the night,
rain soaking his shirt,
peasants slashing a path through the mountains.
Whatever it was—he meant to keep them:
scraps of paper,
poems—stashed in his boots.
Not long ago, after Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez died, I wrote a piece for Truthout.org titled, If Democratic Leader Hugo Chávez was a Dictator, as U.S. Media Claims, Why Do Millions of People Love Him? Continue reading