this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment.

image and poem below the fold

Iraqi woman cries outside a hospital in Baghdad, Iraq, Saturday Oct. 28, 2006. Two of her sons were wounded when a rocket slammed into an outdoor market in Dora district Saturday. In total 35 people were wounded in the attack and one was killed.
(AP Photo/Hadi Mizban)

The Chair She Sits In
by Alberto Ríos

I’ve heard this thing where, when someone dies,
People close up all the holes around the house–

The keyholes, the chimney, the windows,
Even the mouths of the animals, the dogs and the pigs.

It’s so the soul won’t be confused, or tempted.
It’s so when the soul comes out of the body it’s been in

But that doesn’t work anymore,
It won’t simply go into another one

And try to make itself at home,
Pretending as if nothing happened.

There’s no mystery–it’s too much work to move on.
It isn’t anybody’s fault. A soul is like any of us.

It gets used to things, especially after a long life.
The way I sit in my living-room chair,

The indentation I have put in it now
After so many years–that’s how I understand.

It’s my chair,
And I know how to sit in it.

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