Day 250

(Kriah: Nuseyrat)

A man stands in front of his ruined house,
tearing his clothes, which were
already rags.  His wife killed, his two
daughters, little son who hadn’t
yet stood. Niece, nephew,
brother.  His mother, his father.
With each rip
he names one of the murdered:
the front of his shirt, the collar,
each sleeve, each
button.  It seems
the names of his dead
will never end, the clothes
will always bear being torn
one more time.  The man
is a bone-dry tree, 
bark stripped; a field
ravaged by wind. He stands
among slabs of concrete,
almost naked. Strands of cloth
hang from his shoulders
like broken flesh,
like twisted ribbons.