Oh congressman, my congressman,
my daughter had been left behind.
She had a ticket and a passport
I’m home alone with soiled gloves
and a rake. My garden is full
of dead flowers and fake stones
(Oh say keep a tally)
my nephew, 12, and others
were in the Panjsher valley
I’m safely home in America.
Thank God. Maybe I’ll plant.
My garden, near a brook is full
of dead fish and snakes. A
professional gardener will
fix all debris and aches, because
there is a quick mourning façade
to a replacement lawn, and
like an oramental lawn pawn, my
landscaper has delivered sod in
a metal shipping container.
one cousin passed over
the Panj River into Tajikistan,
one to Pakistan, one is
somewhere in Mazar-e-Sharif
I’m home, but the others
were part of the club:
“of those who wanted to leave.”
The brook near my garden
is overrunning; a flood
has swallowed the house
Word that many are shot.
My nephew, a leftover
is buried in a
metal shipping container
so the satellites can’t see
any of those tiny mass graves,
and neither can I, nor can a proper committee.
Oh congressman, can’t you see that
my daughter with ticket and passport
has been left behind, and can’t you
see by dawn’s early light that
she’s been stoned to death.