Sixteen corpses washed clean
as dusk slips to night. Tucked in
star-white burial sheets, the children’s
fingers make tiny half-fists
like new curls of wood.

Coffins lifted, then a slow
procession to the blackened rim
of the village. Now, 40 days of prayer.
Five brothers are wailing.
In the air, a mist.

                           After Garcia Lorca