THE OTHER
(JANUARY 1, 1959)

And so we survive —
And we owe our survival to whom?
Who was it died for me in his cell,
Took my bullet, the one
Meant for me, in his heart?
I live through whose death?
Whose bones are locked with mine?
Whose ripped out eyes
Are looking through my face?
What hand, not his hand
But not quite mine now either,
Is writing these broken words
In this unlikely land, survival
Where he is not to be found?