Thoughts in Sarajevo by Mark Scott Bagula

She is using the flowers in her head
to think away the blade.

When the knife disappears
its sharp shade remains.

Her male friend wields the shadow
spreads the thin black line across her throat lightly.

Sergeant Majors trickle from the thin incision:
blimp the air, and intercourse the window.

She smiles, exhales
floral currents.

The friend collects the pollen misting the air
to salve the slice and stop the school streaming.

He rubs his nose, divides his eyes
with her thin and scarless neck.

His eyes, shallow as hurried graves,
watch the window eat fish.

The friends laugh and uncouple.
They run to the window, blind themselves briefly

in the mirrored light of a sky
so full of bursting moons, stars are hidden.

The escaped fish have turned to planes
and are bombing Sarajevo.

Copyright 1998 - Mark Scott Bagula