Aleppo

Atia leaves daily to help the hospital,

he tells of babies whose scalp

hangs off the head and the blood

he pushes with the mop into gutters.

Every day, always, I stand in line

with the others to get bread,

but none I recognize, my friends

are gone, my old life, it is gone. 

I do not know if Atia will return,

I pray Allah wills it so, 

though I know it is selfish,

and he fights for our freedom.

---

The hospital, it is bombed,

doctors and nurses are dead,

but Atia, he came home,

and said he's joining the snipers. 

I heard of the rape to the women,

performed even in the mosques,

fouling the holiness there with adultery,

sorrow, and ultimately, death. 

Atia tells me about a man he shot.

He says he was shabiha in plain clothes,

I ask him how he is so sure,

he says that he just is.

---

The ground shakes here daily,

explosions I hear every few minutes

as people scream and run

looking for somewhere safe. 

Atia said tonight in other cities

the army is attacking with chemicals.

He sounded more angry than usual

so I didn't ask him what he meant.

Tonight he did not return,

though I deny it I know he is dead

like so many others, buried in rubble

or laying dead, nameless, in the street.

monk

the chime on the door jingles
and a short, bald man
in an orange and red robe
glides in like a specter.

i spy him ordering a small tea
and sitting down at a table.
giving him no particular mind,
i return to my magazine.

out of the corner of my eye
i sneak a glance and see him,
smelling it ever so lightly
and taking the briefest of sips.

by the time i finished reading
nearly an hour later, he'd finished.
still he sat, alone,
in serene contemplation.

"what a waste of an hour", i thought
as i stepped outside to the sting of cold air
and abrupt realization that i'd already forgotten
what i read in my meaningless rag.