so great is the hunger
of bullets that blood
might simply not quench it…


1.
simply
by searching the clouds on her forehead
you think you can tell –  

see it locked in her bony arms
lips pinched tight
on her knobbly dark nipple

green flies buzz on its eyelids
she can’t even lift a hand
to shield her sickly eight-month-old  

and you think
you know the force of her agony?


2.
maybe you can tell –

as tears spike her eyes
her thoughts of
her baby with ancient skin
mouth crooked in hunger

her thoughts of
her husband
now mouldered meat
for loathed beasts
slain by boisterous soldiers –

even gauge the depth of sorrow
that scraped her soul?


3.
the beige baobab
leafless tower
props her up

the sun splinters
icicles in her heart
for strength

the truck thunders off
militia shooting at the sky

and the wind
snatches her husband’s
heap of ash.