The Parade Through Abu Sifa.

The muffled chorus
of a village at war –
rapid drums beating
to a wailing choir.
This threnody lasting
with the passing of hours.

The refrain approaches
like a funeral dirge.
Papa squeezes us tight.
The door begins to lurch
and collapses,
and into our home they surge.

The trigger depresses.
One two three.
The roaring of a tyrant;
the sound of misery.
Papa turns into a rag doll
and his gaze falls on me.

Four five six –
his stare digresses
and his last sight is
mother sprawling as her dress
is torn apart by bullets.
My younger sister rests

cradled in my arms.
My eyes are squeezed shut.
Seven eight nine.
Three rumbling shots
break my mortal shield
and burrow into my gut.