Saturday, September 1, 2012

Slip

I count up the corpses and aircraft
Falling in pieces from the news
I count the bullets that are exhumed,
The bullets that are buried
And the bullets preparing
To be shot loose.
I follow the ritual of food.
I finish my plate
By eating the plate
After a day of hard labor.

When did I get this heartless?
Tomorrow, I'll make room in a corner of your chest
Where I can cry
And I just might exhume the corpse out of my chest
And prepare a ritual
Of proper burial.

---By Nawal Naffaa
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

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