A photograph of The Taliban burning a pile of musical instruments,
Guitars and keyboards and drums and speakers
All heaped together in the sand, chemical smoke rising to the western blue sky that all deserts share
The four men in white robes and scarves standing downwind, not in a state of rejoicing but just looking like they have somewhere else to be, something else to burn?
Staying to finish, listening to what gasps may sound, out the tubes and strings
None of them in the frame has a camera, one is leaning on his long gun like a walking stick
But a fifth man off to the side must have taken the opportunity, they aren’t posing, not exactly, maybe they didn’t know, the candid, shadowless midday, dune shot, a minimalist aesthetic, taken to its most extreme conclusion

I wonder if they said anything before dumping out the gasoline, onto the immoral orchestra
Would humming anything have been so inappropriate?

No different from how we burn weeds on the prairies, less places for the fire to spread though, so garden hoses at the ready aren’t necessary

My instinct would be to intone, like a cantor, like a muezzin, all songs going to the heatwave like offerings
Voices deepened in a bid for respect
Here like the strike of a match, how bout a song boys? Eine kleine Nachtmusik?
In places where those like myself are not allowed to speak
With urge and defiance in the abstract

In our interminable
Long wait for the monsoon
We pray for the season
Of the earthworm and the wasp

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Izzy Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry including most recently “Maps To The Vanishing” from Finishing Line Press, they live in Albuquerque, New Mexico.