Simon Patterson - Us
1. Night. Obsidian slides on the islands of Hawaii. My grandfather’s cancer spots and the x-ray of his deflated lungs. His coffin two months later. Ebony keys under hands that are too dark to be called anything but burnt charcoal crystals, and Beethoven playing softly three floors down in my uncle’s apartment building — O Freunde, niche diese toen, sodern lasst uns angenehmere anstimmen und freundenvollere.
2. You. Your heart. Your mouth when you said
you didn’t love me anymore.
So if we have to show women what the baby looks like in their womb and tell them how the process works before allowing them to get an abortion, does that mean we should teach our soldiers about the culture of the lands we’re invading, and explain to them that the people we want them to kill have families and feel pain, just like Americans?