The football field, where I used to cheer as a twelve-year-old,
had been prepared to accept the deaths of forty murderous men,

whose souls we witnessed exiting with the ease of needles
running out of thread. It was like kicking

in the style of Pelé and getting only the goal post
on your bloody shin, and falling twisted and embarrassed to the ground,

your playmates laughing over your sundered body, screaming:
he is just like his sister, Daud pees sitting down like his sister.