A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
A suicide bomber isn’t born a suicide bomber.
He wasn’t a suicide bomber in elementary school
where he drew a spiky yellow exploding sun
above a little town between two green hills
and gave it to the teacher. And the teacher smiled.
On the day the suicide bomber was born
his father danced through the market from stall
to stall, singing, laughing, shouting the news
until the spiky yellow exploding sun went down
over the little town. And by then all the people
in the houses huddled between two green hills
had heard of the birth of the suicide bomber
who wasn’t a suicide bomber at all, at all.
He was never in his life what you would call
a suicide bomber. He was his father’s son
until that day in the market, the people and animals
splattering like so many fruits and vegetables—
That was the day the suicide bomber was born.
An exploding sun. Like millions of exploding suns.
Paul Hostovsky has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Best of the Net, and The Writer’s Almanac. He has two full-length poetry collections, Bending the Notes (2008), and Dear Truth (2009), both from Main Street Rag. Visit his website.