Their shadows brushed
our thresholds, our window panes
as they marched down
our city streets.
They demanded to hold
our keys and deeds
promising to protect us
from the enemy.
We became refugees in our own city
as we filtered onto our roads,
herded from our homes.
A deep crunch was heard
as it rolled across the earth,
the tank passing us and
my mother clasped her hands, praying
that it hadn’t been the bones
of a fallen neighbor.
They screamed hurray, hurray,
as they sprayed it in our blood,
on our buildings.
Our eyes abandoned wells,
as their celebration began.
A deep crimson coating
our streets.
The very color bleeding
into the noose
that encircled
their necks.
This is a revised version of the poem that was originally published in Poetry Quarterly, Issue 9
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