A photo nestled between pages 44 and 45
of Das Capital slips into my hand. Shows 
a uniformed man before snow-covered mountains 
and some firs. Staring at the camera, grimacing, 

a smile at too much sun, that unveils too much, 
concedes too many details. The air cold, 
even the peaks shivering. Could that be my father? 
This man is mustachioed and once-pudgy dad was not. 

That I remember. He was thin, almost anorexic. 
How can I not know my father? But the war 
–  that broke back and spirit, mind and eyesight –
was his secret time. Never broached freeing Dachau,

Now I know why too much weight bothered. He 
– with visions of lice-ridden skeletons at the camp – 
would have ripped away my fat if he could have
pasted it on the children he couldn’t save.
                        

for Shamsia Hassani

Come, mourn for music in Afghanistan. 
Beneath their burkas, women seek melodies,
toss a thousand black and white piano keys.
They turn and raise their veils, blow puffball taunts

in the streets, and winds hoist them over beards
and turbans. Women pull out white folded
airplanes to fly in the dark and bolt down 
the tanks. Their glow is reflected in clear 

sparks from fireflies and stars. Women pedal 
through streets and tie forbidden kites 
on handlebars to carry lovers’ spice,
as the ribbons flee to a moon of metal.

With music banned, the women play broken
strings on rababs and forlorn minor tones soar 
in hope they’ll merge with mirth of major chords
For now, come mourn for music in Afghanistan.