Fingers
Fingers
They used to translate the war
for a newspaper;
My fingers
Filled with the dead.
They are tasteless in bed.
The fingers that cross
Over the breasts at night
Are the same fingers that pull
A trigger,
Write reports
And open prison gates.
Fingers that left their prints
On a bus near the Zawra Gardens
And on a rusted gun
At the Rashid Barracks
Have filled with snow;
With letters that cannot write from the left.
Copyright © Ali Habash | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment