What Kind of Times Are These? —Adrienne Rich
Dust storm, dust so thick
we can’t see the mountains,
standing like our grandfathers,
that row of buddies
called up to go to war
in their khaki uniforms.
They chose service
or it was chosen for them
or they did not run away.
Their families said they were
“in service.” Everything that meant.
What will our country be
after the dust settles?
What is it now? The air holding
each little lie,
a million particles
suspended
between us and the mountain,
suspended all night between
the people and the stars.
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