A saffron moon
veils the hills
and folds in the crevices
of Kosovo,
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
of Kosovo.
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.




saffron moon

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