Winter 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 1 Poetry |

Somnus

A terrible odyssey. I am to compose a symphony of my missing and missing you. I might draw little dark vacant eyes where their mouths should be. My memory sometimes fails me; even still, things that we have said to one another (remembered and slipped or cast away), they are constant light to me. A pox. Fie on whatever circumstance of language, of time, of survival-stuff, of faith is keeping us from talking to one another, from being with one another, when we are so similar, when we have so many things to say; whatever circumstance of language, of time, of survival-stuff, of faith is keeping us from being with one another when we have one million and one reasons to do, to be, exactly that. Body of light; body of birds, I might draw you some eyes if I had a little crude piece of charcoal, a scrap of paper, and the guards weren't always watching. They rounded the children and the grandmothers up, at the barrel of a gun, ushered them into a gaping metal mouth. The bodies were all stacke

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