All Our Cracked Voices

These might be the last
burned cars where hens hunt
and peck, drab green
noises heart break in the distance
the body parts in stunned engines.
War children hide between houses
and behind skirts quickwashed if at all,
squirrelly, quiet and big-eyed.
Borrowed goods are returned
by doubt and shame
not so much a pair, more
like siblings of fear
near such grand exits
as the sky ends twice.