The Bones of Neruda and A Red Pomegranate

I read on the news

that they are pulling up Pablo.

His bones, at least, and the coffin dust

and whatever else is in

the bottom of that Chilean box.

You have put on your apron

and are peeling the jewels

out of the last red pomegranate

of the season. The sun sneaks

through the window

to play gold in your hair.

You do not care about dead poets,

only the ones whose hearts

still thump beneath their ribcages,

but I tell you about Neruda’s bones

anyway. His driver says he was poisoned

and they are pulling him up to see

if you can poison the poetry

out of the marrow of a man

swallowed up by it.

I tell you this, but you are not listening,

and you pop a tiny blood aril

into your mouth, a tart-sweet gem

the taste of which you pass in a kiss.

With juice and you on my tongue,

I give up on telling you about Neruda.

You already know what poetry tastes like.

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