Fall 2019 / Poetry 2019 / Volume 50

October 8 By: David Starkey

It happens so quickly, the men smoking

in the tea shop have only moments

to stub out their Turkish cigarettes.

 

A mother squeezes her fussing son 

against her breast, his whimpering inaudible 

beneath the bombs’ sizzle and thud.

 

Tracers thread the slightly cloudy sky

as scooters and sputtering trucks speed south. 

Rise Up! the graffiti urges, but by evening 

 

every sensible person has fled. The cratered

streets are empty now in Qamishli,

the shopfronts shuttered in Hasakah.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s