Sunday Poetry: Jean Gerard

DEFRAGGING AFGHANISTAN

Take Showkar Kariz for example.
It's thirty miles northeast of Kandahar
as the crow flies over Mohammed Qasim's head.
He's the only remaining inhabitant now.
He looks up into a cloudless sky.

"There's no Al Quaeda here," says he.
"I had just dug out a child when
the second strike flew over. That time
they got him!"
He squints in the sun,
rubs his eyes.
"These are war crimes," he says.
Silence.
Then: "Guess who came by last week,
and for what? Americans," he says.
He's tired. His voice shakes. "They
buried a piece of the World Trade Center
here," he says, "and took a piece
of our mosque back to New York."
He points
to a small mound beside a ruined wall,
sifts a handful of dust through his fingers.

Jean Girard


(Published at Poets Against the War. Please go visit this web site.)