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.