By
Paul Summers
eid al fitr (2016)
the moon has crowned,
revealed its pristine fontanel
& gaunt with grief, a wailing man
repeats his children’s empty names;
their corpses & their prospects limp,
a pail of tears to swill away the blood & flame.
a breath away, we savour a second
in the slurry of our progress;
slow grace evolved in gloom,
a fragile moment of warmth,
the tender union of skin & air,
the radiant amber of a slug’s fallen hem,
the burn in spate, the anarchy of cloud,
the sky in free-fall, our gods dishonoured.
jihad
how quickly
we resort to hate
recklessly acceptant
of its every invitation
all fear predated
tenderness un-feted
the puzzle of our rage
translated into carnage
beneath the orbit
of a tolling bell
these snow-drops
lead a merry dance
the joy of their distraction
set fragile & short-lived
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