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
3 thoughts on "Balandi Village"
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like curls of new wood–gods. devastating, beautiful. thank you.
Thanks. I didn’t quite realize what a difference it can make when someone makes a comment!
I like this