Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

The Visitor

 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.

by Carolyn Forche
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - The VisitorEmail Poem |
Comment below this ad.

Top Carolyn Forche Poems