about | short | chapbook | home

from war

julia doughty

11/1/01

the sun goes at five now that the time's changed—the sky tonight rumpled with storm-
black-and-white clouds, both getting washed in saffron, then anointed with red

crow on branch calling out the last bugle calls

they're walking and driving out of kabal
taliban have been going into house and mosque for safety
drawing american bombs in to women and children

here, the fallout of maintenance workers and waitresses who can't get unemployment

dorothy day living on five dollars a week for a month
a writing assignment, one of her first:
she could pick when to not eat, unlike others

dorothy day could do no less
no more than write—
she tried part time jobs
she tried nursing
she wrote when others
were unemployed and hungry
when the u.s. kept going to war

***

10/31/01

an oriole alighting on the windowsill in the desert—far out, alone, you’re unlike a bird—
it goes it returns looking chirping at what you are—

*

it’s being afraid, that’s the real suffering, getting the picture stuck in the head, rolling
hard and hurting the insides, something setting open the dam of adrenaline—there’s
nowhere to go—cabin-fevering the mind—it’s the best challenge to be in the presence of
pain makers and getting to the clearing without moving an inch—all the old bleedings
staunched in the pinprick peace—

***

10/30/01

“they gonna need more than bullets & beans this war”

**

10/6/01

these dreams
having an apple pie & knowing
if i give out pieces
to everyone that’s in the room
i won’t get a piece
& i’ll feel better
in the long run giving it all away
than the short term
pleasure of having a piece of pie
but in that moment a part of me
would really love
a piece of that pie
there’s always ice cream,
of which there’s plenty,
& my favorite, vanilla