PoetrySoup Will be down for Maintenance at 11:00 EST
Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

The Visitor

Written by: Carolyn Forche | Biography
 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.



Comments