Table of Contents



David M Brunson



after visiting the Museum of Memory and Human Rights in Santiago, Chile

The CIA modeled the MFA on individual voice
to fight communism, iron shadow of another voice.

After the coup, the people painted poems in the street,
fists raised over the burning barricades of voice.

Trauma, the CIA said, is capital, recourse.
In the US, the poets died by drink, suicide, and voice. 

Today, me, I, and mine bleed into we, us, and ours.
We sing in the collective voice.

Interrogation sites fill the map. Memory
hangs low, like smog. It clings to the voice.




All summer long
    the mosquitos lay

eggs in the above-ground
    pool that the other David

built in the courtyard.
    The December days burn

dry, our eyes raw
   with tear gas, we crack

tallboys and scoop
    the springy pupas

with a fine meshed
    net, Metallica

blasting as we fall
    back into the waist

deep water. On New Years Eve,
    Néstor and the other

Venezuelans jump in fully
    clothed shouting

along to Rubén Blades off-
    tempo. I listen

from my open window
    where, for the first

time, Ivana has come
    to stay with me.