12
Two poems by kenneth gurney
Mosul
The newly orphaned run barefoot
across the scattered plate glass fragments
as chunks of reinforced concrete
dangle like Christmas ornaments
from the staggered rooms in plain view
where a massive wall once enclosed five stories,
but now lays along the curbside gutter
waiting for collection.
As the jets scream their urgent need
to drop a few belly pounds,
cluster bombs detonate and don’t detonate
in glistening fist-sized hailstone patterns
and the only thing to be thankful for this day
is that the descending payloads
are not canisters of poison gas.
And the staccato gunfire tracers
chip away at the temple’s blue facade.
Defaced religious difference
begins to adopt a familiar shade of red
and damp droplets in the dust
may be rain or a rain of tears
as the gunfire shifts from block to block
and the bigger guns thud away
detonating larger and larger explosions.