Dead Air
Steve Inskeep interviews a Chinese-American woman whose husband, a doctoral
student in Persian history, is mysteriously detained in Iran.
Three hundred marks on the wall,
hieroglyphs of hopeless time.
One daily hour of natural light,
a tricolored flag shadowing
the high-walled concrete yard.
The prisoners pace in circles, losing count.
Even when the phone line is pristine,
her loved one is a million miles away,
vanished, detained, forced to confess.
He cannot make a sentence,
cannot pronounce his sentence,
its duration twice his young son’s age.
The reporter asks the not-quite-widow,
“What was his voice like?”
allowing dead air
to hang like the delay
in a lagging phone connection.
“He cannot make a sentence,”
she says. “He was just crying.”
For a costly moment, the reporter
lets her silence be his silence,
and listening in my car,
I hold my breath,
their tears, our silences.
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