with special love and honor for Cindy Sheehan and the residents of Camp Casey
first image: Spc. Johnathon Haggin’s widow, Anna Haggin, right, and his sister, Sheryl Haggin, center, cry Thursday, Aug. 4, 2005, during a memorial service for him in St. Marys, Ga. Haggin, 26, of Kingsland, a member of the Georgia National Guard’s 48th Brigade, was killed in action on June 30 along with three other soldiers while on patrol in Iraq. (AP Photo/Stephen Morton)
second image: The mother, left, and sisters of Muthana Ahmed mourn at the sight of his coffin during a funeral procession for him and two others, Wednesday, Aug. 10, 2005, in Baghdad, Iraq. The three were gunned down by unknown attackers Tuesday on their way to the Sunni al-Yaman mosque in Baghdad. (AP Photo/Asaad Muhsin)
Cross-posted at DailyKos, Booman Tribune, European Tribune, and My Left Wing.
images and poem below the fold
Widow
by Vénus Khoury-Ghata
translated by Marilyn Hacker
The first day after his death
she folded up her mirrors
put a slipcover on the spider web
then tied up the bed which was flapping its wings to take off
The second day after his death
she filled up her pockets with wood chips
threw salt over the shoulder of her house
and went off with a tree under each arm
The third day after his death
she swore at the pigeons lined up along her tears
bit into a grape which scattered its down in her throat
then called out till sunset to the man gone barefoot
into the summer pasture in the cloudy mountains
The fourth day
a herd of buffalo barged into her bedroom
demanding the hunter who spoke their dialect
she shouldered her cry
shot off a round
which pierced the ceiling of her sleep
The fifth day
shoe-soles of blood imprinted themselves on her doorstep
she followed them to that ditch where everything smells of boned
hare
The sixth day after his death
she painted her face with earth
attacked the peaceful shadows of passers-by
slit the throats of trees
their colorless blood evaporated when it touched her hands
The seventh day
stringy men sprouted in her garden
she mistook them for poplars
bit the armpits of their branches
and lengthily vomited wood-chips
The eighth day
the sea whinnied at her door
she washed her belly’s embankments
then called down to the river’s mouth
where men clashed together like pebbles
The ninth day
she dried her tears on the roof between the basil and the budding
fog
gazed at herself in stones
found cracks in her eyes like those in a church’s stained glass
The tenth day
he surged up out of her palm
sat down on her fingernail
demanded her usual words to drink and the almond odor of her
knees.
He swallowed them without pleasure
on his journey he’d lost the taste for tortured water
– – –
This diary series is dedicated to all who suffer because of war
support the Iraqi people
support the Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict (CIVIC)
support CARE
support the victims of torture
support the fallen
support the troops
support the troops and the Iraqi people
read This is what John Kerry did today, the diary by lawnorder that prompted this series
read Riverbend’s Bagdhad Burning
read Dahr Jamail’s Iraq Dispatches
read Today in Iraq
read this soldier’s blog
witness every day
