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Zenobia Venner

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This

His name meant saviour in Albanian,
he’d say wryly;
he had a broad, lined, lived-in face.
Mornings, he’d sit around
at the police depot, chatting,
waiting for permission
to visit the wounded, the dying.
‘I know I shouldn’t smoke,’ he’d say,
and shrug.
They’d light up, and drink coffee
and write their own obituaries to pass the
                                                                 time.
He was a doctor.

One morning he and his mate drove off
on a typical trip -
you could hardly say round -
their jeep was hit,
they were blown to bits, I think,
and their white jeep lies upturned like a
                                                          beetle,
wheels still spinning, in a weird silence,
save for a stiff October wind
ruffling the dust and whipping the bushes.

What can I say? Is it for me to bang my fist
                                                                 down?
                          Is it for me to rage or weep?
What can I do? Absolutely nothing.
What can I say? Simply this.

 

Page(s) 76

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