Bomb

Bomb

Sitting near the coughing dust,
his back is bowed
against the remnant wall
as if he were at prayer,
confessor now
to anger and to weeping.

He stares at his own hands
and feet as if they were not his
and wonders at their piercing;
a woman stunned still genuflects
at broken altar stones,
her hair the wicks of candles.

In chorus robes, the sirens' wail
sings hymns to hungry
gods who feed on these
concussive feasts of flesh
and bid them raise in piety
the chalice of their palms.