Vox Populi
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Chivas Sandage: The Endless War Begins Again
early in the morning, families asleep in their beds.
I do not mention the babies to my wife
when she brings a mug of coffee to me in bed, asking
what’s wrong. She started work so early, before reading
the news. I tell her 150 people were taken
but then the number grows to 251. She tries to read
then tries not to. I make the mistake of saying
they took three generations in one family.
A mother, two girls under five, and their grandmother.
Paraded in the back of a pickup truck.
This is too much. I can see it in her eyes.
She’ll be haunted for days. And so I rush
to explain: they were clothed
and appear unharmed. Which is why I told her—
it was the least terrifying thing I’d read.
They were clothed, I repeat, as if this makes them safe.
Even writing the words “mother,” “two girls,” “grandmother”
is grotesque. In the back of that pickup, someone had a little blood
on her face but I can’t recall whether mother or child
and I do not tell my wife. Nor do I mention
the gunman, who looked absolutely miserable, doomed.
Who dropped fabric over the mother’s eyes. Instead,
I tell my wife about the young woman who covered herself in leaves
under a tree, did not move, and barely breathed for hours.
I tell her about the girl who escaped.
~~~~
Copyright 2025 Chivas Sandage
Chivas Sandage is the author of Hidden Drive (Antrim House, 2012), a finalist for the Foreword Book of the Year Award in poetry. Sandage is at work on a debut nonfiction book about a hate crime forthcoming from the University of Texas Press. Currently, Sandage lives with her wife in Easthampton, Massachusetts, and San Marcos, Texas.
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Ironically, I wrote a poem in January 2020 about the helplessness of watching Trump push the U.S. to the brink of war with Iran. History continues to tragically rhyme.
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Tragically, rhyme is accurate.
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yes and yes and yes and yes. Thank you Chivas, for your open hand…opened to hold the news and the hidden… open to dare to say what must be said even when clothed in the ‘least terrifying.”
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Thank you, Margo, for the gift of your words and support and empathy…
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Sharon Olds visiting my poetry class years ago said, “I want every poem to have some salvation in it.” Thank you, Chivas Sandage, for your beautiful, difficult poem.
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Lisa, thank you for reading and for that quote! Yes, we need every crumb of redemption.
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The mundane and loving act of the wife bringing coffee to her spouse in bed provides a frame that contrasts with the inhumane, cruel act of soldiers capturing a family. So powerful.
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Exactly! The simple narrative has layers of significance.
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I keep telling myself I don’t have to start the day reading news. Why don’t I ever listen to me?
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I feel the same way. It’s like checking in on family—needing to know how everyone is, for better or worse.
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I recognize that early morning experience, still in bed, the terrible news already let loose. I know it. This poem is piercing, so seemingly simple, unforgettable. Thank you for everything required to write it.
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“…news already let loose” makes me think of poison in our air or water. Thank you for reading and offering words that give courage. Sometimes writing a poem is as hard as sending it out into the world on its own.
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🙏💞
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These women in my mind’s eye are Americans with Latin names.
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Yes.
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Thank you for reading and commenting. I find it difficult to give excruciating, devastating news to people. My wife is someone who can forget an entire movie except for vividly/visually remembering every detail of a rape scene. And yes, as a white woman in the U.S., I write about the privilege of “witnessing” war from screens and newsprint. Of course, this is also how I witnessed Vietnam, which destroyed my father (a combat photographer). I’m curious about how stories of people and places we do and don’t know—including common, everyday storytelling called “the news”—can change us. What is the relationship between powerlessness and privilege, empathy and action?
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This sounds like the beginning of an essay, Chivas.
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I admire this poem because it captures the sense of helplessness we feel watching events unfold in the news. The captive women and children may be Israeli or Palestinian or Sudanese or Afghan or Amazonian. The experience is universal, and we are helpless to stop it.
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