“Speak out for those who cannot speak,
for the rights of all the destitute.”
Proverbs 31:8
this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war and other disasters
we honor courage in all its forms
cross-posted at DailyKos, Booman Tribune, European Tribune, and My Left Wing.
april is national poetry month
images and poem below the fold
An Iraqi man walks past a burning car, in Basra, 550 kilometers (340 miles) southeast of Baghdad, Iraq, Monday, March 6, 2006. Two men were burned to death in their car after shootout with Iraqi police in the southern city Monday, and security officials said the victims were British citizens. In London, a foreign official spokesman said he was aware of unsubstantiated reports of an incident involving non-Arabs.
(AP Photo /Nabil Al-Jurani)
An Iraqi man identifies the body of his relative, killed in a drive-by shooting in Baghdad, Iraq, Sunday, March 12, 2006. Bomb blasts, rocket and gunfire killed at least 10 people and injured 23 in the Iraqi capital as the work week got under way Sunday, police said.
(AP Photo/Hadi Mizban)
Worms
by Sandra Alcosser
Some days he’d rub two pegs together
until they made a greasy hum
like rain, the sound of moles
gnawing the dirt’s grain, the song
soils sing before a quake,
and the red bodies would hang
above the ground in a kind of confusion
or ecstasy. They would writhe.
The farmer showed me
the way worms made love
in concrete, coffin-shaped beds
on mattresses of moss and peat, slipping
under the rubber collars of each other,
joyous, shy, nervous, taking turns.
Androgynous worms, their pale larva
rising like dew on black earth.
He told me about the sweet spot
in the warm dirt where he found
the wild ones, night crawlers
a foot long. How he worked
day and night–plastic sky
dripping on his neck–preached
on Sundays, sixteen years old,
reeking of worm sweat.
We drove around his slow
Louisiana Baptist town, the square
garlanded with green metallic boughs,
red Noels, though it was October.
There was one movie house.
The Bijou of course. First floor–
expensive, gummy, for whites only.
Blacks sat in the rafters for a quarter.
Filmy bayous surrounded
blank brown cotton fields,
fluttered with white heron.
Once a black man walked
by a white girl and she ran.
He never said hello. The citizens
dragged him from prison,
burned the man alive.
But that’s an old story.
This one’s new–a black boy
sat in that same prison five years,
innocent too, and when the town freed him
he headed for the Victorian house
he’d watched each night like television–
the illuminated window
of an eighty-year-old couple–
he knifed them both, raped the woman,
what felons become legend to.
If you tend worms your whole life,
dig their beds, stir the eggs,
sort the dark segmented bodies,
you’ll lose the pattern of your own
flesh. The whorls of your fingers
will vanish. A worm can eat anything–
two by four, dog, human.
I know this world, said the farmer,
I’ve listened to worms my whole life
stirring in slime. I know where
we come from, and despite all our slick
designs, I know where we return.
This town’s passed more than once
through the slippery tunnels of worms.
– – –
put a meaningful magnet on your car or metal filing cabinet
read Ilona’s important new blog – PTSD Combat
view the pbs newshour silent honor roll (with thanks to jimstaro at booman.)
take a private moment to light one candle among many (with thanks to TXSharon)
support Veterans for Peace
support the Iraqi people
support the Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict (CIVIC)
support CARE
support the victims of torture
remember the fallen
support Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors – TAPS
support Gold Star Families for Peace
support the fallen
support the troops
support Iraq Veterans Against the War
support Military families Speak Out
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
witness every day
