Kandahar Massacre
Kandahar Massacre
Sixteen corpses washed clean
as dusk tumbles
to dark. Swaddled
in star-white burial sheets, the children’s
fingers make tiny
half-fists like new curls
of wood. Survivors hoist
fresh coffins, begin the mournful
trek to the edge
of the village. Now, 40 days
of prayer. Her brothers
are wailing. The air weeps.
After Garcia Lorca
4 thoughts on "Kandahar Massacre"
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Powerful,
I like your juxtaposition of swaddle and burial sheets,
And your imagery! “Tiny half fists like new curls of wood.” Wow.
simple and clean, especially after a massacre. a peaceful scene, punctuated with wailing/weeping at the end.
The aftermath of tragedy distilled into “tiny half-fists” The air will always weep. Wonderful poem.
Arrangements of short and long sentences, and staccato detail embedded in a narrative thread enhance in all your poems. “Kandahar Massacre” is a beautiful elegy.