Poem: Washed by Rain

written for a contest about war

el sol llora para nosotros esta tarde

[the sun weeps for us this afternoon]

 

and all the laundresses in the land could haul these muddied shirts

     up to the washing place, and scrub them on the rocks until their knuckles bleed

         yet still not remove those stains we put on them today.

 

a blouse, just the width of a man’s spread fingers, palm flat, as if to strike a blow,

     the blow we do not dare turn on the ones holding rifles

                  to our machete wielding forms and figures.

 

Figures, then, silhouetted in flames, and another blouse, split up the front, in slices

         newly embroidered with a fresh application of fine scarlet along the jagged seam,

                       its owner’s unborn prize taken as a token of our passing.

 

Dios nos perdona manana, por lo que hicimos hoy

[God forgive us tomorrow for what we did today]

 

I wrap these images and sounds and places now in silence so deep

         three generations will not make me speak, ever, of the burning chapel smell

                   because the mind slips sideways when a man beholds the crookedness.

 

I learned today a knife carves arms like cornstalks, splits abdominals like a gourd skin

     into this, the land of maize and trees, were we led by los locuras-

        as men asked to do murderers's deeds, for our state long after it abandoned us-

 

and I keep a remnant of a charred anciano’s shirt, solely for remembrance

       that you never know what you can do until demanded by a uniformed soldado           

            holding a torch to your home and a knife to her throat.

 

Their work here is done, and the ashes settle into the afternoon sky

          soon the seasonal evening rains will wash the hallowed ground clean

               because when survival is tantamount, you no longer care that your side is right.

 

solo cuida lo que permita que exista un otro dia.

[you only care for what lets you exist another day]

 

I will ask my wife to take these pants to the laundry stone to fade the stains-

    and pray they never think that we support the guerilla here, but will tell my children

            about the place I know they can run to, just in case.

 

There is now a field of loose dirt in what used to be the neighbor’s town

          and there are probably none who will ever think to look there, again-

               for any trace of the living.

　

Author's Note

Published in the University of Connecticut human rights journal "Namaste" 2010 edition.

written for CHL's war contest- a perspective of a soldier fighting in battle.

I chose the Guatemalan civil war, during the time period where 626 Indian villages were wiped out in the 1980's by state sponsored scorched earth and genocide campaigns. Soldiers- trained, funded, and backed by the US government- took villagers at gunpoint and conscripted them as "workers" in the fight against the elusive guerilla army, purportedly hiding in the hghlands. Any villages suspected of aiding the guerilla were burned to the ground, and the citizens massacred in notably brutal fashion. I tried to write from the perspective a conscripted villager called upon to murder his neighbors. Today, the brutality of 20 years ago is marked most profundly by the refusals of anyone to talk about what was done. The survivors are the people I work with.

Reviews

[cest la vie]

Stunning, Marie..
I knew before I read this I would walk away a different person.
All of the others have stolen my words, but I will add that the horrors of war should never be hidden. It needs to be flashed in our face 24x7. I say that for the purpose of never letting us forget or get complacent. Then perhaps, this madness will cease..

Wonderful poem...simply wonderful

[Ellen Hammond]

This is one of those moments when words seem inadequate to express how deepy this has touched me. Such a compelling example of man's inhumanity to all living things especially other humans. Those who forced others to commit such brutal acts, and those who abetted it will have to answer for it someday. I can understand why nobody wants to talk about it as the horror must continue to haunt those who survived; just as many soldiers who return from battle refuse to talk about it. You did an amazing job of driving home the atrocity and sickening reality of war.

[Ed Hart]

It took courage to open your eyes to this. You are so various in your reach and powerful in your grasp that it is startling to watch you pull back the layers and walk through this wild place with words that burn and burn...

[Mark]

Mis ojos no pueden llorar suficiente, o muerte mi corazon en este delugo...
Never having been a soldier, I cannot imagine what it must feel like to see people dead today whom you were laughing with yesterday. A deeply moving work, Rachael.

[Wicahpi]

And you did a superb job of it, too! An Excellent Write!
Sad, traumatic but excellent none the less.

[Jibey]

Captures the sad destruction and bleakness of war and the mind-numbing impact on the participants... Insightful and arresting...

[Charles]

This is a profound piece of writing... I cannot imagine anyone describing these scenes from anything but first hand experience. Well done. The intermixed Spanish lines work quite well, anchor the poem to the place. The imagery is precise and paints the bleak reality of war. If you haven't read Brian Turner's Here Bullet, I recommend it for parallel scenes and imagery. A must for my library.