(For Sarita Talwai)
This poem walked to school in December
And waited to be recited at the school function
Where it had become de rigueur now to celebrate Malala after her Nobel Prize.
This poem wore a green sweater over grey slacks
And waited with the children in the minty courtyard
Where it stood shivering still and chattering fun in the quiet Peshawar air.
This poem had no idea then it would stain red
And that the courtyard would drip muscles and blood.
Where children, now hard as the bullet they took, would wait to be lifted one last time.
This poem excitedly heard the sound of a van bursting
And thought like the children did that it was a car backfiring
Where a giggle almost escaped the poem’s lips but for the sudden terror of armed masked men.
This poem was shot down before it could form
And became shredded meat in a vengeful dish
Where it forever lie unconsumed, unaged, uninterested anymore in life.
First ever poem written for the poetry workshop at BWW. I rather like how this turned out, and so I am pleased to share. 🙂