The War

We were at the border and they were checking

the luggage. We had been talking about Lermontov’s

novel, A Hero of Our Time. John liked Petorin

because he was so modern during that transition

from one history to another. I talked about Vera

and Princess Mary, the old man and the others

Petorin hurt. I said there was no reckoning for him,

that he was not held accountable as in Tolstoy

or Dostoevsky. Maybe morality does change,

I was thinking, but suffering does not. Then

a scorpion crawled from a bundle on the table.

He fell to the floor and scurried across the room.

The men were delighted. One crouched down and held

the scorpion with a ballpoint pen while he cut off

the poisoned stinger at the end of the tail,

the scorpion stretched out was as long as a hand.

The men gathered around, some with open pocketknives

held shoulder high. The man picked up the scorpion

by the tail and put it on his friend who yelped,

jumping away. The men laughed. The scorpion fell.

Another man picked it up and threw it lightly

against the wall. The scorpion fell and kept trying,

scuttling across the tiles toward the open door.

He kept his tail high, threatening, but looked tired.

Somebody else picked up the scorpion and I told John

I was going. We went outside where there was nothing.

Notes:

This poem is part of the folio “Linda Gregg: Never Give Up Longing,” curated by David Semanki, and was published in Gregg’s 2008 new and selected volume, All of It Singing. It is reprinted here with permission of Graywolf Press. Read the rest of the folio in the April 2026 issue of Poetry.

Source: Poetry (April 2026)