Carolyn Forché

(28 April, 1950 - / Detroit, Michigan)

The Visitor


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.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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Comments about this poem (The Visitor by Carolyn Forché )

  • Rookie - 0 Points Gerry O''donnell (12/29/2014 8:56:00 AM)

    This is full of emotion and power. Economical with words but not with its impact. It's excellent. Thank you. (Report) Reply

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