The following poem was composed on the occasion of "The Geography of Trauma," NCSPP's San Francisco Introductory Event for 2005.

History's Rich Harvest

for Francoise Davoine and Jean-Max Gaudilliere

Every day the frozen tide yields more bodies.
The disappeared pile up, sand
embedded in their simian creases
numbers written on nameless arms with indelible ink.

Bones bleach in the sun.
Clouds the color of bruises
clutter the open view
a clatter of car horns in the street.

Or the outline is there but the body has vanished
the lens dropped from the camera
recording nothing
words fallen from the tongue
signifying nothing.

The ancestors, taken away 
leave only ghosts in the time of no trust.

What was the season, do you know?
What was the color of flowers in their blooming?

If you can transform us, do it now
before drugged time freezes the tears of statues
before the only presence is absence.
It is time to rest.
Put us to rest.

- Scott Lines, Ph.D., 2005 September 24