The boyish foreign tyrant wears faun-colored desert boots
hooked boyishly around the rungs of his chair
on this talk show where he speaks with the voice of a woman
who interprets from the ether. He’s smiling
like the naughty boy in school who picked his teeth
with a stiletto: mister, you may be despicable
but my boyfriend wore those same boots once,
and I loved him in them, despite the stolen tape deck
in his car. How small a blemish does your narco-trafficking
shrink to, what with that comely stubble on your cheeks,
your brocade cap and wool cape tossed
across your shoulder like a cavalier’s? Perhaps we need
to recalibrate the scale or set your crimes
in one pan of the balance, so when we set your beauty
in the other it will rise, as beauty does, instead of clunking down.
As beauty rises, even when it goes unseen. See
how many of the famous modern paintings
were made by men who have such vigor in old age?
And when I flip open the back covers of their books,
the famous lady poets all have shiny hair.