I read Pablo Neruda
who could speak to
to the earth,
and come back whole.
Who loved geraniums and onions.
Who led wars of devotion
to the wounded,
children waking up to bombs,
storms of human rage,
the drowning of stars.
My daughters found three volumes,
among his last,
to let me have his thoughts.
Young lover,
diplomat,
soul with worker’s hands,
heart,
traveler into the earth,
leaving words of comradeship.
I see his Indian face,
his Spanish smile.
If we shared a table,
I doubt we would speak poetry.
He would cut a piece of cheese,
pour wine,
ladle eggs on my plate,
and we would talk ships
and women, politics.
And keep our voices soft,
our thoughts chaste,
then leave one another with a hug,
and each of us
go off alone,
with a voice inside us
talking of peace.