Moment
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Moment Author(s): Margaret Gibson Source: The Iowa Review, Vol. 36, No. 1 (Spring, 2006), p. 94 Published by: University of Iowa Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20152128 . Accessed: 10/06/2014 10:15 Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at . http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp . JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected]. . University of Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Iowa Review. http://www.jstor.org This content downloaded from 62.122.79.37 on Tue, 10 Jun 2014 10:15:18 AM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
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MomentAuthor(s): Margaret GibsonSource: The Iowa Review, Vol. 36, No. 1 (Spring, 2006), p. 94Published by: University of IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20152128 .
Accessed: 10/06/2014 10:15
Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp
.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].
.
University of Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Iowa Review.
http://www.jstor.org
This content downloaded from 62.122.79.37 on Tue, 10 Jun 2014 10:15:18 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
Moment
Just now, as I'm listening to the rain plink off the rim of the down-spout, she is walking toward the embassy,
the explosives hidden beneath her clothing, swaddled against her belly, warmed by her heat.
As I riffle through pages and pages of poems in Machado's Times Alone
in search of the golden wind
that quickens words like jasmine, lemon, in Tuzla a young girl watches
a man stumble to his knees
at the edge of a field, his hands tied behind him, and already she hears
the clink of the shovel
that will uncover his bones and those of the other men two winters and one
harvest hence.
Listening and muttering, riffling and watching, I look up, startled to hear
soaking into the stones at the edge
of the woods, Cocoon! Cocoon! the call of a dove, so murmurous and clear
I could follow it gladly
into silence and green shade. Not now, I tell myself. Not now. Ask first
what it is such silence mystifies.
Who it implicates, who protects. What it refuses, what construes.
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This content downloaded from 62.122.79.37 on Tue, 10 Jun 2014 10:15:18 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
