by Dana Yost
I breathe
But nothing goes in
Or out. But this
Is not true.
I open my eyes
But they see nothing.
A darkness, early-morning
Darkness. Into infinity.
Is this dying?
My ears hear the
Mad-man screams
Of killers. Then the
wails of those
About to die.
A woman thinks
Of molten things:
Eyebrow melting,
Walls to a home
Curling in flames,
Dead bodies in the
Desert, not charred
But dark with bullet
Holes, torn fabric,
Hearts burnt in mid-beat.
Tracers orange, skyward
Flares red. In a room
An evacuee is given
Tea but says no, her
Mother dragged off
Like fire down a hill,
Lurching, shrieking,
So hot an image
She curls on a cot
And thinks of molten things.
Dana Yost says of this poem: It is allegorical, about the war in Israel. It troubles me deeply and I feel the need to say something about it, but rather than write a direct, reportorial piece about it I wanted to get at the pain of it. I hope this works.
