by Shalmi Barman
He didn’t die cursing the tanks
or the turrets or swarming drones
or the hillsides laid for ambush
or the cratered country road
harboring executioners.
I hear him through the static,
the shatter of windshield and bone,
chanting between gunshots
a prayer for the fleeing soul
o god accept my repentance
o mother forgive my choice
pleading against the darkness
with blood and breath and voice.
Let him be saved, if there’s saving,
while we damned in his stead
scream unresting curses
to make the heavens deaf.
or the turrets or swarming drones
or the hillsides laid for ambush
or the cratered country road
harboring executioners.
I hear him through the static,
the shatter of windshield and bone,
chanting between gunshots
a prayer for the fleeing soul
o god accept my repentance
o mother forgive my choice
pleading against the darkness
with blood and breath and voice.
Let him be saved, if there’s saving,
while we damned in his stead
scream unresting curses
to make the heavens deaf.
Shalmi Barman, originally from Calcutta, India, is a PhD candidate in English at the University of Virginia where she is writing a dissertation on class and labor in Victorian fiction. Her poetry has been featured in Gyroscope Review, Rat's Ass Review, Snakeskin, The Crank, and elsewhere.
