Damascus
       

Three women are gathered round
a cooking pot in the basement

of a bombed-out apartment block.
In the dim light and woodsmoke

they might be the witches
of MacBeth, plotting mischief,

or a trio of fairy godmothers
concocting redemption

for their heroine. They might
even be the silver-haired Fates

weaving our common destiny,
if they weren't simply three

wives who'd lost their husbands
to the incivility of war.

The roads outside are snarled
with converts to violence,

every tomorrow is now past,
but this tenebrous cellar

is almost peaceful as the three
widows wait silently

for a bowl of rice and lentils
before deciding where next to go.

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Copyright © 2021 David Starkey All rights reserved
from Dance, You Monster, to My Soft Song
FutureCycle Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission