After the Sirens

by Malkeet Kaur

Sirens flare, slicing the morning open,

their wail flooding the city.

Metal throats spill grief,

red lights bleeding

across windows and skin.

We watch how quickly life slips away,

no warning, no reason.

The newspaper arrives,

thin and useless,

headlines failing to explain.

Names printed in tight columns,

too small to hold the weight of what we’ve lost.

The sirens bloom again across the sky.

A child scuffs his shoe through dust,

the playground empty, swings still.

A house stands gutted,

brick ribs exposed to the sun,

curtains torn and drifting.

We learn how easily the living die.

The river moves on,

carrying ash in its slow current,

silent and indifferent.

It gathers what’s left,

folding bodies into its muddy thread,

no ceremony.

The sirens bloom again across the sky.

Mothers mark time by the sound of doors closing,

by the weight of each goodbye.

Fathers knead silence into dough,

hands rough, faces set.

We learn how easily the living die.

The generals talk on television,

voices flat,

promising destiny.

They draw borders with words,

lines the young will cross and bleed for.

The sirens bloom again across the sky.

We learn how easily the living die.