Posted by in Poems on Aug 11, 2013

Che was beautiful in death,

his long hair and beard,

the still, half-lidded eyes

insisted on being recognized.


“He is Christ,” the nurse said,

washing the wounded body:

“He is our Saint Ernesto.”

She still maintains the lock of hair


so reverently cut, answers prayers.

But who, among the ugly dead,

the executed and enslaved,

would tell her that her own hair


could work miracles, if others

could see Christ in her,

busy in love’s commonplace drudgery

with no redeeming revolution?