AFTER A NIGHT IN THE ALLEY OF WORSHIPPERS

The point is not the frayed light of six a.m.

or the barking of dogs, half-crazed by the scent

of blood, whom we had to drive away.

Nor the fatigue from a night spent deep

in death, the network that only now falls

silent, the shouts from the platoon above, identifying

bodies, the sense that all this was to be expected.

The point is not how they lay there, after

the dogs lunged into them, their faces

distorted, their wounds festering, strewn together,

black-garbed, the dirt of the road stained darker

by their blood. One held the trace of a smile,

not wicked or revengeful, just lost.

The point is, I volunteered, and Vish, the officer,

was my friend. But when we got there I could not,

I simply could not. To this day I see Vish and a soldier,

shoving them into the armored truck. They are dropped,

are dragged, I don’t have a better image for all this:

the bodies dragged, dropped,

over and over.

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אחרי הלילה של סמטת המתפללים