The Bomb Maker from Kabul


Ruminative silence pulsates
over the disquieting drone,
on a wine crate
a vibrating smartphone.

The susurrus of branches
over the rooftop now;
a four-fingered hand,
nails red and polished,
reaches out.

The greeting is brusque,
the voice gruff;
the breath, mothball musk,
steams up the grimy glass.

Outside the breeze picks up,
and the snow whispers
secret communications
against the window.

A red nail taps the red tab;
the phone disappears
into a parka pocket
draped over a chair;
on the backrest a name
engraved in bronze:
Sergeant S.C. Grear.

The bomb maker sighs,
remembers her first bomb.
Like her first kiss
in a back alley in Kabul.

Goggles, face mask, gloves;
she returns to work,
to what she loves.

Tonight she controls the
the storm in the West;
she’s an Afghan goddess.

words & photography by Ramon Ramirez


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