he remembered
the smell of running feet
on cold stony ground,
his little ones behind hers,
the smell of death
as it dropped
from the sky,
wrapped in screams and blood,
the smell of pain
as she held him,
his arm still in a sling,
whimpering louder
so she would draw him close;
you are ten today,
the lady with the kind eyes said,
and his gift was such a big box
covered in blue paper,
he remembered
the smell of hammered nails,
as they carried away the coffins,
one by one,
the smell of hunger
as it wrote its unspoken name
on empty faces
and distended tent walls;
the lady with the kind eyes smiled,
told him to blow out the candles,
he held a knife in his hand
and remembered the smell of wheels
as the strange man
drove him away in a jeep,
the smell of her absence,
as he lay awake
night after night,
reaching for her hand,
and the guns never stopped firing;
he hugged her,
the lady with the kind eyes,
happy birthday,
she whispered in his ear,
as strangers sang and clapped,
and he sniffed and sniffed
through the blur of old tears,
but he knew
this smell was different.
THOUGHT PURGE 