Thursday, February 08, 2024

Srebrenica

 


It was weeping gods shitting knives

into the open mouths of

their lovers.

 

It was something softer.

 

Chagall with a machine gun while

the ghettos burned.

 

Rothko's wrists laid open and

the starlings that poured out.

 

The sunlight that tasted like ashes,

and then the floods. This woman's

thirteen year old son playing down

by the river, and then vanished, and

when she wept it was for herself.

 

When the enemy arrived, we helped

them separate the sons from their

mothers. Helped them separate the

husbands from their wives. 8000 men

and boys altogether, and we watched

them being driven off in buses.

 

We read about their murders in

the paper.

 

Seemed like there should have been

someone we could blame.






Thursday, February 01, 2024