Pantoum in Wartime
        In memory of Adrienne Rich

Were the mountain women sold as slaves
in the city my friend has not written from for two weeks?
One of the Just has given his medal back.
I wake up four times in the night soaked with sweat.

In the city my friend has not written from, for two weeks
there was almost enough electricity.
I wake up four times in the night soaked with sweat
and change my shirt and go to sleep again.

There was almost enough electricity
to heat water, make tea, bathe, write e-mails
and change her shirt and go to sleep again.
Her mother has gallstones. Her sister mourns.

Heat water, make tea, bathe, write e-mails
to Mosul, New York, London, Beirut.
Her sister mourns a teenaged son who died
in a stupid household accident.

To Mosul, Havana, London, Beirut,
I change the greeting, change the alphabet.
War like a stupid household accident
changes the optics of a scene forever.

I change the greeting, change the alphabet:
Hola, morning of light, ya compañera.
Change the optics of a scene forever
present, and always altogether elsewhere.

Morning of roses, kiss you, hasta luego
to all our adolescent revolutions,
present and always altogether elsewhere.
It seemed as if something would change for good tomorrow.

All our adolescent revolutions
gone gray, drink exiles' coffee, if they're lucky.
It seemed as if something would change for good tomorrow.
She was our conscience and she died too early.

The gray exiles drink coffee, if they're lucky.
Gaza's survivors sift through weeping rubble.
She was our conscience, but she died too early,
after she spoke of more than one disaster.

Cursing, weeping, survivors sift through rubble.
One of the Just has given back his medal,
after he spoke of more than one disaster.
How can we sing our songs if we are slaves?

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Copyright © 2014 Marilyn Hacker All rights reserved
from A Stranger's Mirror
W. W. Norton & Company
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission