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Interrogation IV
When he sits in the chair
It’s my job to open him up. He transforms into you.
Unrecognizable as the resurrected,
Worm casings shed, azaleas blooming from the closing wounds--
In person your voice sounds nothing like this.
I hear you, otilith swinging on its diminutive thread, singing.
Your lips look like candy, blown like glass.
In real life your morning body
Is stretched out, mouth opened,
Full of night’s dew,
.....................................a cup spilled,
...............................................................sometimes blood.
Bio:
I am a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop. I have two books of poems dealing with international/global themes, including political poems about the war in Bosnia and the Iraq war. In 1994 I volunteered in a refugee camp in Gasnici Croatia. In 2008 I interviewed Iraqi and Palestinian refugees in Syria. The following poem is from a series of poems dealing with issues of interrogation and torture. Five Interrogation poems have been published at Brink and Diode.
(author retains copyright)
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