Bootprints in Bellies

War seeps through seams of tent,
uniformed locusts
not with bullets
but unbuckled belts
to pin down soft bones
with imported boots.

Her mom-made pretty dress
from the last fabric in market,
can't protect.

Legs open like a broken gate,
blood soaking into sand
which grew millets.
The goat pen filled with
hysterical laughter,
Clumps of hair
and milk teeth,
scattered like chaff.
She is looted like a grain sack.

Scrawling to her hut
with what is left
after the earthquake.
Soon a sickness will
grow in her
which kicks.

Boot prints in bellies
is the real battlefield.
Split shadows are the goal.

War is never over
unless the women say it is.