Magazine article WLA ; War, Literature and the Arts


Magazine article WLA ; War, Literature and the Arts


Article excerpt

Buildings softened by bombs,

Aleppo is now the wreckage of Aleppo.

At each intersection, four crumbly

piles of essential elements:

glass, steel, concrete.

New monuments to the new city.

Traffic lights lie limp like big dead

birds caught underneath, electric entrails.

Aleppo turns the television

into a vista from the early nineties.

There's dad, home from work

front and center on the couch.

I sit beside him with flexible bird legs.

Mom comes home to find us

reclining in front of the green-tinted war.

It was nighttime over there,

and the falling bombs sounded quiet and airy.

Today under a hail of gunfire

the Syrian bakers still bake bread.

What protects them but their souls' silent plea?

The war is on in the doctor's office too,

and I watch the screen in the waiting

room like watching a fireplace.

My doctor told me he was Mormon.

He let it slip when we talked about the war

before we talked about my body.

He always looks away when he's listening

to my heart. …

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