The village is deserted, except for the drone
Of power boats, pink tourists ski in the wake
Of crossfire, bodies piled like crates of Coke.
The barber sweeps through the glass and cleans
His blade, muscles bulging under his shirt.
He’s seen it before, a lifetime of burying friends;
Carrying his daughter through the rubble, her head
Doubles over his shoulder, so small on his fist.
Corners boast spent shells like winos and soldiers
Scurry like pigs past acolytes to the bombed
Out chapel; a helicopter crashes into the belfry
Its blades, a crucifix, we practice to become martyrs.
Hagglers in the marketplace count rows of tamarinds
The husks pass through their fingers like a rosary.
Copyright © Geoffrey Philp