War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele


with gratitude

Black coffee. The hour still and cold inside
this warm café. Postered. Laughing. Book-lined.
You lean an elbow into the old wood
of witness. Know where the bodies were buried—
their ponytails, their dresses, the shoes they chose.
Their last morning. Bosnia. 1995.
Soldier. Peacekeeper. Father. Tired
of excavating the dead every night
after you kiss your children, your wife.

Listen. This hour. Angels can sing
even in bright foaming coffee. And angels
bivie in woods twenty miles from here: blue herons,
great horned owls, the bright, green water.
And angels live. In this, your silver. Suffering.

About This Page

The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled Vet. It was posted here on January 24, 2009.


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