Artist As Witness

Witness


They replayed the video of the shooting, freezing the frames
into statues. A monotone explained the trajectory
and physics of bullets in motion, like they were ballerinas,
how a bone, perhaps, could deflect into another arc
like a Calder balancing act. The voice confession
enjoyed its lurid details, savoring the language of death,
a rare treat. The witnesses answering variations,
as if to catch them in a lie, into doubting memory
and gory details, coaxed, “are you sure that’s what you saw?”

The judge admonishing both lawyers Ping-Pong arguments,
searching for neutrality where there was none. The grin
of the killer, illuminating the room, getting away with it.
Traumatizing people is more than a hobby,
“it was during war, things, unfortunate things, happen.”

He supervised mass graves: People tumbling into a pile,
one bullet going through five skulls — pure efficiency,
poetic. Sometimes blood tunneled outwards.
Once a hole puckered as the person stared into the unseen,
fifteen minutes before folding, like an umbrella.

“Unfortunate things happen to unfortunate people,”
he shrugged, like he was talking about spilling some flour.
He insisted on wearing his uniform with all its medals.
If they had to question his motives, he needed to impress them.
Once they noticed his importance, he reasoned,
they would realize he was justified making important decisions.