The Syrian Olympics
I must be a sour puss, a spoiled sport, railing
against lads
swimming in the river Thames, or piloting single
sails,
hitting tennis balls across nets at Wimbledon while
Syrians
fail to step out to neighborhood cafés for bread and
tea
just in case shells shatter the glass, severing the
arms
of the owner’s son, or the heart of the intrepid, last
customer who missed the convoy to the Turkish border
and decided to live as he has always done on Saturday
morning, blue and bright like a diamond, flesh in
shards,
coffee percolating on the stove and abroad, watching
boys and girls leap for joy, their medals won.
Indran
Amirthanayagam, August 11, 2012
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