k o s o v o
p r i s o n
The blood stains on the Kosovo mud
draw the honeybees.
The lewd cries hurled from trucks push the sky far back
through tomorrow, maul you,
till even the filthy sunlight
grabs your throat.
The newly stung grieve,
God shudders in the long dizzy passage
of a weeping crowd. We stick in the earth,
clay grabs each foot. The sticky wet love
of the earth, grasping hold
of our spirits. Shout for water, food,
the dog world barks, the animals have bitten
the children one by one,
and from moment to moment,
some great beast leaps out
of us to bludgeon the women,
rape the girls and pummels the innocence
out of the young men. The insects are also weary travelers
the birds have all eaten stones.
The dead lie on top of the dead,
the war tribunal in the hole
of child's head, battered, brain-sodden,
lump hanging out like a thumb,
waits its turn.