13
When did the dictator’s son
start combing his hair
into that small,
slicked-back, one-length
pompadour in the same style
as his father?
His mother and sisters
can talk of nothing
but how happy they are
to be restored to power.
There is no canvas
or mural on which
their likenesses could be
restored to anything
but their own imagined
glory. No length of fabric
to bandage the smell of goat
piss out of the air, or lighten
the color of blood money,
blood diamonds.