In Spanish he whispers there is no time left. 
It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,
the ache of some field song in Salvador.
The wind along the prison, cautious
as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching 
the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath
slipping into his cell each night while he
imagines his hand to be hers.  It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.

Added: on February 26th, 2007 at 9:16 AM | Viewed: 2365 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Carolyn Forché
Poem: The Visitor
Volume: The Country Between Us
Year: Published/Written in 1979
Poem of the Day: Sep 19 2008

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