by Dana Yost
*
I breathe But nothing goes in Or out. But this Is not true. I open my eyes But they see nothing. A darkness, early-morning Darkness. Into infinity. Is this dying? My ears hear the Mad-man screams Of killers. Then the wails of those About to die. A woman thinks Of molten things: Eyebrow melting, Walls to a home Curling in flames, Dead bodies in the Desert, not charred But dark with bullet Holes, torn fabric, Hearts burnt in mid-beat. Tracers orange, skyward Flares red. In a room An evacuee is given Tea but says no, her Mother dragged off Like fire down a hill, Lurching, shrieking, So hot an image She curls on a cot And thinks of molten things.
*
Dana Yost says of this poem: It is allegorical, about the war in Israel. It troubles me deeply and I feel the need to say something about it, but rather than write a direct, reportorial piece about it I wanted to get at the pain of it. I hope this works.
It works. Disintegration, devastation, death, desert--it’s all there.