War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele


padre padre can you hear sun, the tide, the tilted earth, the fault, the death inside. the I that flew across the blue map of knotted no man’s land, into someone else’s mud-baked hearth, Afghanistan. the I that kicked the dust, that pocketed the stone, the I that left tall, fresh-pressed never to see home the same way again.

padre padre can you hear shudder of return, the fear of beloveds like incense burn. what it is to learn that the I has gone not just for soldier but for everyone?

and padre padre tell me this, all that listening you do, I’d like to know.
padre padre, who hears you?

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled Padre. It was posted here on April 03, 2010.


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