(shard upon shard pried out,
bloodshot eyes pressed close,
jagged lips manoeuvred into distant smile,
gunshot wounds cleaned then neatly embalmed)
broken songs are sometimes sung in ones.
with no congregation behind to chant hope,
they rise up a hill then lose steam
obliterating into one moonless night.
not always can art become repose
and shamans and prophets be handy
to perform alchemy—
the kind that drums life
back into you.
some blades of grass
know the lick of blood
like it is normal to graze a head
against a stone
and peel across its throat
with a rusty blade.
some men never find the corpses of wives to bury
some mothers continue to visit seers
who see visions
of sons, long lost