I Tell You No Jihad Can Change the Course of Rivers

Outside, a soldier rubs the muzzle
of his gun with sandpaper      a bird changes its address

The head of a little boy is a deseeded olive
bobbing unaware in a bottle of terror . . .

It’s a curfew here . . . even sands refuse to rise
under the hooves of silence
. . .empty refrigerators smell of static

The village needs a cart full of fresh fruits and vegetables
But the only sale is on
charred bodies and limbs
and fists with toys in their clasps

Gradually the sun pimps up the landscape
Rodents and men in black scurry out from their holes
Drops of azan trickle down their marble tongues and vanish into their dark robes

Other men in tankers talk about tea
Some across a few tents gurgle with two cups of hot blood each

The purposeful move on to water the map with tankers
Violence replaces violet prayers

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Maximum of 400 words or 2000 characters.

Comments on Friendsjournal.org may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.