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More poems by Carolyn ForchéCarolyn Forché | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Carolyn ForchéBooks by Carolyn Forché

The Visitor

Carolyn Forché

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.

Added: 10 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 20 Jan 2018 8:12 AM | Viewed: 5742 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3532/ | Viewed on 20 January 2018.
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