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See.The woman is pale, strange, standing, her head to the side, holdingthe leashthe naked man lying darkon the floor, his head twisted, without name even though they callhim gus, like a gust of wind, or dis gus ting, or dust, dust he shall be ... she has a name, lynndie.
See our own hand holding a thing —leash—our eye traveling the length
of our own arm—to the delicate 8 wrist-bones spread of 5fingers—the great one thumb—opposable—off-shoot of thought—a maker's hand—that which makes ushuman—a handhold—but—loose or tight—the hand holds
theleash. [End Page 34]
Veronica Golos won the Nicholas Roerich Poetry Prize (Story Line Press) for A Bell Buried Deep. Her newest book, Vocabulary of Silence (Red Hen Press, Feb. 2010), contains powerfully wrought poems that witness and respond to the continued wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Gaza—a mirror in which we see and hear the names of war's dead, their ghosts, and ourselves. She lives in Taos, New Mexico, with her husband, writer David Pérez. To contact: vgdp@aol.com
