I. <br /> <br /> ash was <br />smeared about <br />the the oily-skin <br />of her forehead <br />like lambs blood <br /> <br />above the doors <br />of shacks in israel <br />as if to save all <br />behind her skull <br />from a coming- <br />plague <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />she glanced- <br />deep and through <br />me with christ-like <br />eyes and spoke of how <br />humans are like instruments <br /> <br />poorly tuned by life <br />and experience <br />she is still the <br />back-bone of a <br />great and many <br />songs <br /> <br />III. <br /> <br />wondering <br />what she ate <br />if not the meat from <br />genocide and can now <br />picture her; <br /> <br />carefully selecting <br />breads and vegetables <br />in the produce- <br />section of a market <br />which thrives on her <br />and such religious days<br /><br />Eric Hamilton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wednsday/
