Poetry

By

Lianne Kamp

Justice in Muzaffarabad

often the horror lies in the details –

the minutia that paints the bloody picture

but sometimes it is in the white space –

the blank emptiness where the depravity ferments

the questions pile up relentlessly – forming

shadows of images that strangle the imagination

did he weep tears of justice and choke out her name

as he emptied himself inside her rapist’s sister?

did he moan with pleasure, this righteous brother,

while a sixteen year old girl was sacrificed on a bed?

did she squeeze her eyes shut, did she scream or

plead, or hold her breath to keep her soul from escaping?

I scratched all these questions in black pen filling the

white page and carried it to the ocean, setting it

adrift – and the water drank the black ink, sunk it

to the bottom of the sea where it rose up again as

white foam on the waves – because even the ocean

was not vast enough to contain it

Lianne Kamp

I came to Boston many years ago to write poetry.  Although I never abandoned poetry altogether, life had different plans for me. I have rediscovered the importance of writing and over the last year have been published in a number of Prolific Press journals. Mainly, I write poetry to make my world more panoramic by watching it more closely.