It’s hard to picture those who write verses to you,
O bulbous moon rising over Atacama,
taking electric cables
to the testicles of their political opponents.

But then again, think of Mao Zedong—
before he became a mass-murderer –
writing beautiful poetry
during the long nights of the Long March.

Think of Pinochet flanked by his generals
with arms crossed
posing for the New York Times
for the photo that made Leni Riefenstahl wet.

Doesn’t the jaw of the reptile brain
drop in the sight of such flagrant generalissimo?
Would’ve Neruda condemned it in verse
had he lived long enough to do so?