Drone

             For Karim Alrawi 

Glaze eyes. Then glaze soul: the dull, dull deadly 

dull faceless work of those killed 

whose names we don't know 

by those whose names we don't know. Drone: 

we can't mourn or condemn 

because we can't see. It's a hive of bees, 

it just stupefies us, we breathe in the smoke 

smoke, smokescreen war, collateral damage, compound 

fracture. Smart bombs kill only bad men 

and those who chose the wrong side: suspect wives, 

bodyguards, accidental children, 

a cat on a wall of stone. Drone. In a hotel room, 

eyes half-mast, he sucks the plastic spout of a honey bear, 

drifts to the place where poppies come from. 

It doesn't help if we shout: he's gone. Gone. 

It doesn't count if you do it standing up. If you do it 

with good intelligence. If you do it from very far away 

so they are small ants so they don't know 

what hit them. What hit them? Lemons 

hail at impact. They want to minimize 

casualities, improve accuracy. 

We are too far away to hear the news, 

we hang upside down, there are Djinn of dust, 

we swarm the enclave, clean the stingers, 

strum our throbbing abdomens,

swell our lethal hexagons. Drone. 

It's good hygiene. No broken bodies

on screen, just the buzz of America's Biggest 

Loser, just the long, long boring war. 

So turn the channel already, bury first-born souvenirs 

sent home on ice, medicate all post-coital 

stress syndrome. Drone. When there's no spectacle, 

how can we mourn? One button, 

and they are erased: a slight tornado

of dust, unwrapped chest, fractured 

human shield. Her arms relax, she spills 

her body's wine: blood 

dervish, tea and teaspoon. 

Eyelashes: son. Drone.