SYRIAN CHEMICAL WEAPONS STRIKE, DOUMA, APRIL 2018 by Brian Russell

He remembers the faded purple shade of a grape
the color of dusk or bruise, the gentle explosion of juice
if eaten correctly, all at once, hunger a chrysalis for lust.
He tries to recreate the taste of an orange, the imagined
acid triggers a visceral response, he licks his lips.

Easier to recall the fruit than the hand, the dizzy shifting shape
of his father’s fingers dismantle the rind like a crab grips
the doors of the mollusk’s shell and pulls. He learns to ration
his memories which diminish with each recollection. Dust
settles on everything as it must. The sun and moon call a truce.
Before he leaves he kneads his father into the landscape.