a mother weeps for her children
dispersed in the air by the bombs.
she breathes them in with the smell of burnt flesh.
her voice is hoarse from ululations.
mourners force platitudes down her throat.
death came visiting and left behind heaps
of charred bodies and bleached bones.
like the city thrown into darkness by the failed
Power Holding Company, the lights are gone from her eyes.
these are the tourist attractions of this country.
come and experience death in all its naked glory.
feel it in the air. taste its silken smoothness on your tongue.
hear it in the music and dance.
watch us gyrate to discordant tunes,
nimble feet made light by psychotic introversion.
our reality is like a hazy dream.
drums of war serve to lighten our dead souls.
our hoarse hollow laughter echoes
in the empty chamber of federalism.
this country is a woman weeping for her children.
a mother must not know her children’s grave.
she must hold on instead to memories of birth pains
and life’s piercing cries.
and become another, dead alive.
> Published first in Nailed Magazine.
Tag: the living dead