Al Jabayl

 

 

 

Pan fried tomato’s swim round,

The oil glistening the deep red

Skin that covers the fleshy innards,

The call to prayer sounds the fortunes

Of those from different wombs,

And rooftop spies look on,

Emotionless and unfeeling.

 

My rifle is poised as bare I take my

Tanned torso for a cold shower,

A wash before bathing in war and

Torn, the hyoid trained in silence

Permits a quarrel with Arabic tones,

The love of desert only inspired,

From the shelter of an oasis.

 

The cold water washes down the blood,

I watch it stream into drains clogged with vomit,

And my rifle, poised like a stick

To steady my stance,

Confirms only a pretention -

That the brave are the boys

That don’t cry, when in honesty,

It takes the courage of a man,

To admit his tears at the life that is lost.

 

 

Michael J Waite 9^th March 2010.