A saffron moon
veils the hills
and folds in the crevices
when F-18’s approach–
absorb the world– warp the wake.
A scream pulls in the moon,
pulls in the air, and shatters
on the children
The children look at their mothers; their aunts‘
mouths work. There is no sound sense.
It’s the Americans.
The children confess:
Our fathers have strangled infants.
Our mothers have egged them on.
We have drunk milk
purchased with spoils.
© Copyright 9/15/2004 by Sara Hall
All Rights Reserved.