With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Straight-backed and big-ear-bald, the army man
Tells us what he did in our name, how he held
The father to the floor with a foot on his chest
And waved his gun at the others to leave the room.
The others were children, a wife greasy with dinner,
A woman who must have been an aunt. They
Were too frightened to move, so he lowered the gun
And said to his two buddies: Show them out.
Left alone with the man of the house, he kicked
Him in the side, pulled out a knife, and pressed
The point to his neck. Tell me who that sniper is
Or I will slice off your tongue. The man grabbed
At the knife and cut his tongue with it himself.
The squiggles on the floor even God couldn’t read.
After a close look at the cover of your June 2009 issue, I found myself crying. The sculpture in Gia Marie Houck’s photograph is overwhelmingly sad. Inside, I always read the poetry first, and Mark Smith-Soto’s “Calligraphy” grabbed me hard.
The Sun is the only magazine I subscribe to. Because I might soon lose my job, and I want this wonderful magazine in my life for as long as possible, I have paid for a three-year subscription.