Thursday, January 8, 2015

Ex.3 In the sand, with a stick

In the sand, with a stick

I ran

until the signs suggested I not

go any farther.

Retrieving possessions down the small drain, just wide enough to let my hand pass. Having been assured they would be there.

Then their hair began to fall out.

We could have been their friends had they only been on our side of the river.

How can they go back to their churches?

I know it was them who killed. I can feel their fear.                                

There is no stray bullet, Sir.

“I didn’t like that description of genocide.”

As if it’s another flavor of coffee amid an array of consumer choice.

“I like this one a lot, but that one – I don’t know why – gives me indigestion.”

The report said that two gunmen entered and started shooting indiscriminately. Another, that they called their names.

Cher René,
Quoi dire ?

Chère Ann,
j'ai perdu aujourd’hui plusieurs amis à Charlie Hebdo. J’avais déjà vu des amis tomber sous les balles à la guerre en Asie, au Proche Orient, en Yougoslavie, mais jamais à Paris.

« You can have my gun – when I run out of bullets »
[TR: Dear René, what to say? / Dear Ann, today, I lost several friends at Charlie Hebdo. I had already seen others gunned down in wars in Asia, the Middle East, in Yugoslavia, but never in Paris.]


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. Haunting, especially for me the drain in the midst of the other horrors. Sympathies to your friend.