Tribunal
The soldiers are bored
but their orders were strict:
give each a trial.
This takes a while—
twenty blamed men
kneeling in the parlor
of a home the Americans
have commandeered. One
mutters, puts his head down.
From the bedroom, the sound
of a rifle announces
its verdict. This man
isn’t praying, he only
looks it. All night,
he has composed his lines.
They’re not what he has learned
to say: “which way
to the checkpoint?” or
“have a nice day.” The four
soldiers have been taking turns,
a kind of musical chairs—
the one with the gun becomes
the one who hauls the body
becomes the one who brings the prisoner
becomes the one who questions. Then
they do it over again.
Now it’s gone on for hours.
It’s early morning. The sun
unfolds across the floor,
across the bodies on the floor
like a widow’s trailed gown.
The man remains proud.
He’s dragged to the bedroom,
shoved down near the window.
Outside, a few swallows land
in the trees. They hear him say,
“please.” They hear him say,
“it is a nice day.”
Posted 09/04/09
This poem first appeared in Mid-American Review volume 29, issue 1.