Syrian Errasure

1.

A bomb

unpacks

 

The city’s bony grids –

burnt metal, glass,

pegs, cogs –collapse

into clangs.

 

Gray engulfs town

like a thirsty tide –

fangs of rubbles sprout

from a ground

no more stable

than an insidious caul of cloud.

 

Blue-gray scribble

of devastation all around.

 

Homes, hospitals

shove themselves

into globes of memory.

 

Tears from mothers ripped open

by air strikes,

drip down shadowy

remains of buildings.

 

Silent voices.

 

Pop.

 

3.

 

Somersaulting wails

buckle, then meander

through a cage of loneliness.

 

Blind, blind,

blind, blind –

all around

a blue-gray emptiness.

 

Behind all this,

a living eye, its iris

a pool of pulp.

 

Bombs have scratched his temples,

eaten skin, retracted flesh

through which blood drips

like wax.

 

He wants America to save

his tongue

from falling. Hold close

his two babies licking

lozenges somewhere.

 

But the vetting, a must.

 

Another blast.

then gray then

 

the eternal darkness.

–Tanmoy Das Lala

Tanmoy lives in New York City with his partner, Eric, and a pea plant. His works have appeared in various online journals. His website is tanmoydaslala.blogspot.com

 

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