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May 6, 2002 Issue


  • Books and the Arts






  • The Enemy

    The buildings' wounds are what I can't forget;
    though nothing could absorb my sense of loss,
    I stared into their blackness, what was not

    supposed to be there, billowing of soot
    and ragged maw of splintered steel, glass.
    The buildings' wounds are what I can't forget,

    the people dropping past them, fleeting spots
    approaching death as if concerned with grace.
    I stared into the blackness, what was not

    inhuman, since by men's hands they were wrought;
    reflected on the TV's screen, my face
    upon the building's wounds. I can't forget

    this rage, I don't know what to do with it--
    it's in my nightmares, towers, plumes of dust,
    a staring in the blackness. What was not

    conceivable is now our every thought:
    We fear the enemy is all of us.
    The buildings' wounds are what I can't forget.
    I stared into their blackness, what was not.

    Rafael Campo


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  • Letters

    Letters

    Judith Butler's April 1 "Guantánamo Limbo" intelligently discusses the failure of the Geneva Conventions to take account of "prisoners of the new war" and links this failure to its flawed premises regarding states.

    Judith Butler and Our Readers