Thursday, December 18, 2008

War

The woman sucking on a stone
imagined that it was a Persian nougat ball.
And she sucked on it with
the oblivion of a child left alone.
There -- nothing was mild.
Each blade was a prick.
Each glance -- a cut.
That's if you still had a gut
with which to feel or fear.
The metal gods overhead
shatterred the ground
each time you took the luxury to sit.
And nothing fit
the preconceived order.

Each day was new.
Granted by no one.
And you learned to chisel your words
to suit the terrain:
Dry
Edgy
Bordered.
Like a woman that has
never been loved or desired.

I remember the fire.
I remember the fear.
And the child's cry.
I remember screaming:
My eye.
You lie.

But it didn't.
It really didn't.
It all really happened.
And so much more.
It did.

And who can uncover the lid
on that and stare into the nightmare once again?
At the:
Woman sucking on the stone
like onto her last breath.
And the children...
the crazed, hungry children
beating the dead donkey
to its second Death.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Very good poem, Ms. Djin. I follow your blog but rarely comment.
Paul