Scraps by Hank Kalet

Scraps
By Hank Kalet

The doves in grainy
black and white, blasted
from their cages in
the New Baghdad Market,
torn up, crumpled
like the newspaper pages
we used to pack away
the Christmas ornaments
just weeks before.
“Death has become
so normal for us”
said one teen as he
as he collected
“scraps of flesh,”
the remains
of the victims scattered
like the snapped branches
and loose trash stuck
in the brambles
and bushes littering my yard.
“It doesn’t scare me
anymore,” he tells the paper,
“because I’ve seen
a lot up to now.”