Alene Terzian: Spoils of War

I.

In Beirut, a store owner makes

jewelry from shrapnel: 

corrugated metal bangles,

a hollow point bullet ring,

a welded pendant cross.

She says, material’s cheap,

mark up’s high—rich people

buy them for Christmas.

She has collected enough

metal to fill her garage,

has learned the difference

between grenade and bomb,

shell and casing.

The ones with serial numbers

cost double; real history,

she says, is a proof of purchase—

to get close enough without dying.

II.  

My father hides a square

of shrapnel behind trousers

in the closet, considers

the day he found it next to

his dead dog in the street.

When he thinks no one’s

looking, he polishes it,

smells the iron ore,

buffs its corners

of impact. It shines

in his palm. He thinks

it’s what killed the dog

that unlucky summer,            

keeps it as a souvenir

to remember the days

when the streets

were lined with skins.