MIT Poetry

Witness

Jean Monahan

In the end, somebody always has to look.

No matter the risk, the worrying fear,
someone has to stand at the door,
seeing for herself what's there.

                     It was high morning and the gate
swung open and near. The heat was in her hair
and she could have done anything else but turn:
call to her husband and
daughters, swoon.

                            She could have used her
imagination but she chose instead to bear
witness to the things of this earth, evil or good.
Nameless, she stood watching
                                                            as the heavens fell
on Sodom's sleeping sinners, knowing herself
a neighbor to sin, if not a sinner. Nameless

because, according to the ancient code
a witness gives up her identity,
becomes the thing she witnesses,
because, by blameless witnessing,
                                                              blames us.

Send your comments