Flocks of carrion crows perch in the trees,
feasting on body parts dangling from branches.
It’s a smorgasbord, a sumptuous, full course spread.
Here’s an arm, there’s a foot, up there’s a severed
head, broken dentures bulging from its mouth.
Crows on the ground ravenously devour the savory
morsels scattered there: fingers, a toe, assorted
limbs, a child’s tattered corpse in a pool of blood,
partially eaten testicles lying in the gutter, the tip of
a nose, an ear, an eyeball staring up from the curb,
myriad lumps of crumbling, bug splat looking, flesh.
A man, sobbing, carries a bag of shredded meat,
all that remains of his infant son. As he passes he
kicks at the crows who scurry away, taking wing.
Suddenly, the blast of a gunshot, then more shots,
a staccato of shots: pop pop pop pop pop pop!
The man shrieks, stumbles, collapses and dies.
His bag of flechette tartare spills onto the road.
Crows fly down, eager to partake in a tasty treat.
Missiles strike nearby and the ground vibrates!
As dense, hoary smoke rises, crows take flight
and the garlic-like aroma of white phosphorous
commingles with the acrid smell of melting flesh.
Genocide time has come once again to Gaza.
Israelites are annihilating the Amalekites afresh.
“Massacre them all,” commanded Yahweh, “slay
every woman and man, every infant and child,
and take for yourselves everything they possess,
and never neglect to feed the hungry crows.”