The rest of us have to act like we believe
The dead women in the rubble of Baghdad
Who did not cast a vote for their deaths
Or the raw white of the exposed bones
In the bodies of their men or their children
Are being given the gift of freedom
Which is the virtue of the injured us.
It's hard to say which is worse, the moral
Sloth of it or the intellectual disgrace.
—Robert Hass, from "Bush's War," in Time and Materials
The deep forlorn smell of moss and pine You knew your angels loved you
behind your stone house, you strumming
and singing Lorca, Vallejo, De Andrade,
as if each syllable tasted of blood,
as if you had all the time in the world. . .
but you also knew they would leave
someone they could not save.
—Philip Schultz, from "The Failure"
You knew your angels loved you
I've had two poems of my own accepted for the May issue of The Scrambler. In addition to the texts, you will be able to listen to audio files of me reading the poems. I'll repost the link when that issue is online.