Bin Laden in South
Carolina
It is equal to living in a tragic land
To live in a tragic time.
Wallace Stevens
We are strolling near
the forest when we spot him.
You aim your rifle,
he puts his hands up so slowly
he seems to be
starting to dance, a dance that begins
in his graceful
fingers.
We march him to our
house in the meadow,
to the backyard where
you tie him
to a chair.
I bring him books.
Bind his wrists if you must,
I plead, but
please leave his hands free enough
to turn the pages.
You do not acknowledge
that you’ve heard
me.
I shrug in his
direction, reassuring.
I wonder if he reads
English.
He must be bored,
I say, sitting in the sun
for hours.
I think of lemonade,
cold beer.
You growl at me,
“It’s you who
have been in the sun too long.”
My family comes to
visit. They enter the yard
through the gate, a
stream of them
carrying casseroles,
steaming pies.
As they pass him I
whisper who he is.
Don’t stare,
I say. You especially, I
hiss
to Aunt Helen, who
does. They all do.
He sees them,
lowers his limpid eyes.
I peer out the
window, against the rising sun.
Gone,
I think with a pang.
But I am wrong.
His head lifts
from the damp grass.
He has only been sleeping.
I suggest a more
comfortable chair,
offer to go get a
cushion.
You stalk behind him,
pushing
the barrel into the
small of his back.
Your voice is harsh,
reminding me
you were a soldier.
You show me the stash
of knives hid in the
folds of his robe,
tell me the ropes
look loose, I should fix them.
I avert my eyes.
“Do you find him
handsome?” my mother asks,
appearing beside me.
Oh yes,
I think, settling his feet
in the grass, retying
the knots.
His hands lie still
in his lap.
What more can I
do?
Who is
responsible? Who shall we call?
You raise the rifle
to your shoulder,
bend to the sight,
tell me to move
aside.
Forthcoming in Escaping The House of Certainty