(From the poet, Joy Harjo:)
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May 13, 2010 Albuquerque Thursday
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What do I do with the story when I read: “Thai general shot in the head”? I read it, and where do I file it? Does it become another weight of despair pulling on my arm? I see a shower of blood, a flower of red death blooming as if there were sudden rain in the desert. I see two armies with bayonets drawn. I hear the grief of mothers and children, and see the stiff countenances of warriors who can know only war. What isn’t war will break them apart in tenderness beyond reason. I see the oil spill in the Gulf eating up water, creatures and shoreline. And then we are in the kitchen where a family wanders through the house with cokes and stumble to their solo stations at televisions, computers and a game. The sun is settling lonely into the West. But brightens at the sound of human voice singing a song for the end of the day, for the sun’s journey.
