Jeffrey Aarles is a Montreal writer, playwright and poet.

This finger

last night

touched

a much-loved cheek

before

rude divorce

crude separation

from its fellow

digits

and the hand

it knew.

It lies

pointing

nearly touching

a stranger’s ear

that heard

penultimately

a child’s nose

sniff

then

a soft whistle

and then

nothing.

Not far away

lies a soft thigh

covered

in blood

like her first astonished

moment

of womanhood

but even more

alone

now.

Everywhere

the rich red life

soaks into

the dry earth

and becomes

a component

of the sands

that will

ride

on the spring winds

through the land

that gave it

birth

that will

catch

in the teeth

of the soldiers

that will

cross

oceans

and fly into

our empty sockets

to make us cry

at last

that will

in time

find

peace

in a quiet

desert

night.

16/03/03