For Zein al-Din Suleiman Moin al-Najjar, Age 0

 


Scripture in shrapnel, hailstorm

Of jagged, clustered platitude. Read

The verse concerning drone strike, the

Chapter on dismemberment. What begets

These deaths, these fissures & eruptions

In dailiness? & what permits their retreat

Into something to ignore? Zein, there

Is too little country to engulf in flame,

Slivers of tinder, remnants in the helical

Warp & weft of living to shine bright

Under glare of bomb. As if holding

The weapon demands its use. As if

Spelling a god’s name with bullet

Is itself some piety. Here, it started

In infancy– a culture conjuring 

A god & a country as cosigners

To mortal debt. Out of their belly 

Barbarians spill, swords dripping blood.

A ventriloquist’s act setting hook & barb

In tendons of fear & yanking hard. 

What god wouldn’t coddle you

& keep you? Your fractional animus. 

Your empty lexicon. Your tuft of 

Swirling black hair. & the world you saw

Before it burst. We are a vile species,

Zein, & hurry to beat death by 

Destroying all around us the hope

Of beauty. We cheat darkness

Begetting darkness ourselves

Instead. I sing your name.


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