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