It was by accident.
Walking in Mexico City
I saw a poster about a reading
at the National Stadium.
A tribute to Pablo Neruda.
Like something that might
happen in a Greek ruin
not in North America.
I had to bear witness.
My Cuban friend guessed
from their dress and speech
that people came from all over
Mexico and South America,
and they knew their man.
When the readers spoke his lines
as steady whisper surrounded us as
if the poems were a rosary.
Suddenly from the center came a chant,
Neruda está aquí. Neruda está aquí.
In New York, Security would have dragged
the visionaries out there in minutes.
But no. The readers waited. People wept quietly.
When the voices hushed, the program resumed.
No one was frightened by this spirit.
Neruda was there.
He was expected.
We were glad for him.
Está bien.
