When my uncle came home from the war
he brought seven bags of naan
two pounds of butter and a piece of
shrapnel buried in his stomach
Cook he commanded
Butter the naans, heat
their skin on the stove
until they’re scorched
until they scream for release.
Cut them into a million
pieces and scatter them
Along Victory Avenue.
Once Noakhali’s valiant champion
Who scarfed 100 fuchkas
With their blood sauce streaming
is now unable to eat
His stomach is a paunch
Growling with rotting screams
pulled fingernails and broken
bones, fragmented stories
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
When my uncle came home from the war
he brought seven bags of naan
two pounds of butter and a piece of
shrapnel buried in his stomach
Cook he commanded
Butter the naans, heat
their skin on the stove
until they’re scorched
until they scream for release.
Cut them into a million
pieces and scatter them
Along Victory Avenue.
Once Noakhali’s valiant champion
Who scarfed 100 fuchkas
With their blood sauce streaming
is now unable to eat
His stomach is a paunch
Growling with rotting screams
pulled fingernails and broken
bones, fragmented stories
Inspired by my Uncle who died during the Independence War in Bangladesh
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