Alan Semerdjian: THE CLEANSING

Above the black serpentine line, the hawks
begin to circle and talk of peace.

Above the broken backs of mothers, no one
can see the angles and hesitations,

only the clean sweep of idea, like wind
coming down from a distant mountain .

Someone threw a limb across the garden
a long time ago, drew up new maps

for the body, which was never not whole,
not even in the darkness, echoes, marches.

Now two hands squeeze together the ghost
town. It is not the predators we fear

as we leave memory and land in another kind
of again. It’s the rewrite of history, the birds

who stand around and watch each other,
quiet in the trees, as if the tear of talons

made no noise, as if the minds of sinister
architects did not dream of new homes.

This poem was published in the Summer 2024 issue of MIZNA