December 1989
Mourning black
were the women’s headscarves,
like crows perched on their heads,
and the graffiti smeared on walls:
“Peace to you,
our dead.”
We colored the air
red-yellow-blue
with chants
and lit candles.
We walked,
empty-handed.
They colored the darkness
with tracers,
tanks, and guns,
the bullets’ glowing criss-cross.
The sky over the city
was clotted maroon,
the color of blood stains,
of fear.
White smoke,
gray splinters,
green shards of broken glass,
dark brown,
shards of men.
The next day
was silent blue light.
We filled its outlines with the newest color,
the bells’ clear hue.