Guernica

in a hamlet tucked
           beneath
the sleepy, desert mountains
of southern lebanon,
the women are moaning
slow                rhythmic              chants
regarding
the striations of wheat fields,
their voices      fluttering perfectly
           between          octaves.
their bodies
are swaying in a trance,
each woman dancing
with the blue ghosts
of men’s faces
that they hold between
their curled fingers.
their heads are bowed
           to the dirt,
their mouths are filled
           with dust.
they are ripping
bloody hair
            from their scalps,
but they cannot                       open
their throats quite                    wide enough
to swallow                              the rape.