17 May 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 1
In Another Country.
Right now, a relative you never knew
rides across a desert in the bull's eye
of a gun. His and your language is no longer
for everyone. Each image it shapes wiggles
like a mirage, each lover you encounter
squiggles away like a question. Which inflection
masks what he risks in that other country?
Which sight captures the tone of his potential
loss despite the proper lens? Perhaps
those who have the words stay behind
their eyes, fashioning whose ends make more
sense. Will it matter when his rifle glints
at his enemy like a shot flashing on a bar
before its taking, before they shoot each other
into what's beyond? Right now, that relative is
living for now. In terror. But don't sweat
it. Really. Remember? You may never learn
he was your brother and without that knowledge,
how could one's words ever intend to play?
About the author:
Kevin Stoy will soon receive his MFA in poetry from George Mason University. His poems have most recently appeared in Eucalyptus, Triplopia, and Stirring. He will be teaching again this spring at the University of Michigan's New England Literature Program.