Metal​​​​​​​
The cow had two legs and half a face. 
She swam the narrow gap near the bridge,
with a newborn calf in the wake, teeth holding fast her tail. 
She collapsed next to us, 
in the half-shade of a leafless tree,
and I told her that she was beautiful.

She died, while her baby nursed.

Once again, 
the sky smelled of metal…
The rockets fell
across the river, 
over our town.
We saw the pieces:
doors, 
furniture, 
neighbors float by.
We shared what we still had,
some water,
apricots.
The calf, 
a light brown boy,
pulled on my wife’s braid.
My wife,
never a mother,
rose and spit.
She hurled stones
across the water
and screamed through the sky,
while the birds fell burning.
Her tears 
were paths,
through the ash
that had long covered her face,
and I told her that she was beautiful.