Moustapha's Dead

Here at the end of desert

there is nothing but the sand

clearing its throat

of the air in the city.

A fan tail of dust

becomes the next storm

of wounds named by their depth.

His childhood pillow

a dented can empty of food

he never ate in his threads,

so few they cannot be called clothing,

growing from the peace of his mother

and the drowned man he knew

to be his sweat-drenched father,

unable to lift him after a day

of cement sacks or mud blocks

from wherever a dinar would descend

from the garden of heaven

Allah promises for the righteous

Then Allah's righteous

came to this outside world

as they trail 

the dust-turned bones

of martyrs

This is the day the liars

will profit from their lies.

This is Moustapha

grown to man

who prays for the world of peace

many times each day,

so that He will rule the world

and call Moustapha His true son.

So judgment rolls across the sand

sad in its history

looking for unbelievers

where Moustapha sleeps,

for sleep is a sign of power.

Here is Moustapha's bed

as a drain turns the desert red

for next to it

is Moustapha's head.

Barry G. Wick 2015