saturday morning is lighting
the tips of the evergreens,
the wind comes in gusts through the window -
tousling my hair as my grandfather did.
i’ve just spent an hour reading of war
in chechnya. my coffee has grown cold,
but not so cold as their dead. curled up
in my worn reading chair,
there is still sleep lingering in my bones,
which is to say life.
my cold coffee now bitter - like the character
counting gunshot wounds instead of cadavers
as if each shot were a separate death,
as if in the tallying he will understand,
as if in the reading, will i.
another gust flips the pages
to where i left off, so i begin
again to count with him,
hoping to find the sentence
where ends the tallying.
i wake to find the sun high.
i have slept again. I dump
my cold coffee down the sink,
while he continues his bitter count
without me turning even a page.