Dan Marlin (2.26.06)

CLASSIFIED TESTIMONY OF A SOUTH TEXAS QUAIL


In February, 2006, the Vice-President of the U.S.
accidentally shot his hunting companion.

1.

In the mesquite grove
of my ancestors,
as I measured the grass ahead
in the ripening light,

I was the target,
but I was spared.

2.

After bending to pick up a souvenir
of his afternoon pleasure
-the blood and silver feathers of my sister-

he stood up, taking the shot
meant to break my flight.

Because there was fifty times
more of him than me
it not kill him,

and he rose again
from his hospital bed
to stand before a microphone,
the flesh above his white collar
a sour rainbow of bruises.

3.

Accidents happen, he said,
I don't want this to spoil
all the happy memories
of hunting South Texas quail.

And sorry for the trouble
caused my good friend
who deserved to relax
from his important work.

Sorry?
-but I am not.

The shot which
pocked his face
was a small price to pay,

for though I was the target
in the mesquite grove
of my ancestors,

I was spared.

THE NIGHT BEFORE

Ants ascend the green woven threads
of the bean vines
beneath a long moon,
this night of pollens
before you arrive.

Cricket pulse, racoon's eye
the poorest sleep on stone,
moving on before the dew dries.
A night of footsteps
before you arrive.

In the memory of my hands
your small breasts rise.
A hummingbird, I wait their blossoms,
this night of breezes
before you arrive.



IRAQ BODY COUNT

"We're not in the business
of counting civilian casualties"
- U.S. Military

None of your business
to know them:

breadwinners, orphans, matriarchs, invalids

whose eyes form a single gaze
into the mirror of the living.

They are estimates, imploded fractions
of the Tree of Life,

whose numbers are disputed,
identification incomplete,

confirmed by birthmarks, scars, schoolbooks

when their faces can no longer be read.

As they pray and mourn,
sip tea and suckle,
cinch the donkey's load

they become the suicide's baggage
to Paradise, atoms of the fireball
dried in fissures of pavement.

Trembling behind windshields,
they die before they can explain
to the Checkpoint's jumpy trigger finger.

They die for the lie that beguiles us,
as the power at hand
slays the touch of the fingers.

With arms raised in a wedding dance,
cut down beneath the shrieking wing,
labeled insurgent after the fact.

Carried out of the blue-eyed prison
bearing the scorch-marks of shame,
cast into a desert of vengeance.

Found face-down
in a line beneath the eucalyptus,
wrists bound,
lips enclosing the vowels of pleading.

Sweep them into the evening wind-
they will return to the city
one by one,
the uncounted, substantial number
walking beside those who grieve them,
their loss braiding
the wild hair of years.