In a desert
of mecury
nations of
unkept women
rest like squat
beetles on
all fours–
listening with
ears buttoned
to the ground.

They can
hear voices
echoing in
their heads,
whispering
of immolation,
hearts buring
in the afternoon,
birds soaring
in the sky.

There is no
comfort in
the keening
breeze, what
was blue
has turned
to red, falling
bombs have
gleaned their
husband’s bones
and left their
children dead.