The Visitor in  General   

In Spanish he whispers there is no time left.
It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,
the ache of some field song in Salvador.
The wind along the prison, cautious
as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching
the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath
slipping into his cell each night while he
imagines his hand to be hers. It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.

By Carolyn Forché

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Other poems by Carolyn Forché:

• Poem For Maya
• The Colonel
• The Garden Shukkei-en
• The Morning Baking
• The Visitor