The Newspapers & France

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My heart aches for the French families and our world that suffers such shock and death to live with everyday for the rest of life.

Mary Oliver

Every Morning

I read the papers,

I unfold them and examine them in the sunlight.

The way the red mortars, in photographs,

are down into the neighborhoods

like stars, the way death

combs everything into a gray rubble before

the camera moves on. What

dark part of my soul

shivers: you don’t want to know more

about this. And then: you don’t know anything

unless you do. How the sleepers

wake and run to the cellars,

how the children scream, their tongues

trying to swim away–

how the morning itself appears

like a slow white rose

while the figures climb over the bubbled thresholds,

move among the smashed cars, the streets

where the clanging ambulances won’t

stop all day–death and death, messy death–

death as history, death as a habit–

how sometimes the camera pauses while a family

counts itself, and all of them are alive,

their mouths dry caves of wordlessness

in the smudged moons of their faces,

a craziness we have so far no name for–

all this I read in the papers,

in the sunlight,

I read with my cold, sharp eyes.

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11 thoughts on “The Newspapers & France

  1. I agree – you’ve created a piece of art to match Oliver’s piece of art…and it so right for the day. Thank you for this gift…

      1. I know. It’s really tough. Every day there’s something worse than the day before. We must stay strong though. Blessings to you Laurel!

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