Dancing Around the Fire

I approach the smoke hoping to find food.

What they could be roasting, I wonder.

A rabbit family in its prime: plucked

From the barn of a village farmer.

Or a goat: one of the many that roam

The streets, idly gnawing at the women's laundry,

Having finally found a better use.

Or even better: an elk... in Africa?

I am delirious now. I should hurry.

Whatever it is, sweet juices will be streaming from it

And I shall thank God for his good grace: I am alive.

I have been walking for half 

A day, the balls of my feet 

Torn, my left arm enshrouded 

In a constellation of shrapnel

Though I can feel it no more.

Only a few hundred metres to go.

Their village entrance has been blown to dust

Half the thatch in town has been burned,

Houses abandoned, left to burn

Just like mine has. But there is joy here

They are celebrating a victory

They were more fortunate than I was:

They pushed back the rebels' guns and jeeps,

Protected their girls from sure rape

And revel in their victory( as they should)

Though that smell is still here;

The same smell that soaked my sister's burning body.

They lost some dear ones too. Not many

From what I see: Only a few bodies

Soaked in red water, their final baths.

I see the people dancing around the fire.

They have their guns raised above their heads

Waving them at the sky like the black smoke from the flames

They are wearing military 

Trousers and casual white shirts.

I can see it tied in the fire: my redemption.

Sounds of joy falling from the dancers.

It has been attached, feet together

Glazing in the sun

It writhes free and runs out of the flames

They push it back in and it stays there.

That smell again.

I must be delirious. For a moment

I thought I saw the shape of lunch

And lunch was a man.