Remembrance.

The sky turned on us, tried to kill us.

Stuck down there like prairie dogs.

I thought of my brother in Iraq, what he said:

After a while, you just want to die faster.

What does it mean, being dead?

Mom says it means living forever, with Jesus.

Dad says don't worry about it, dead means dead.
I hope they're both wrong.

We came out of the crawlspace and thanked God.

Even Dad. On his knees. Thanked God our foundation held.

Our roof could be repaired. Our car was still there.

We ate ribs that night and slept in our beds.

My grandparents. My cousins.

All the neighbors and the trees and everybody's dogs.

Gone.

Like my brother.

Thanks, God. I will remember them, all of them, even if You didn't.

***

what astonishes me: the pain in this boy's face

The Great Meeting of Children.

There are no strangers, only more people to hug.

Hello. I love you.

Hug until you can no longer

tell who is breathing,

whose skin is warmed by the sun.

Hug until you can no longer

tell who just laughed,
whose heart beats in your joy. 

Hug until you can no longer.

The clouds come in so fast

and soon you will be one of us,

worrying about wind and germs

and strangers.

Goodbye, when it's time for that,

when it's time to remember the doll at your feet.

                                               

***

what astonishes me: that they truly do not know a stranger

what saddens me: that they truly do not know a stranger

A Woman Giving Water To A Prisoner of War.

Tell me again why we fight and who is my enemy.

This one, who was taken with his children to fight

for a government that eats big every day?

If babies could eat bullets, his would be fat.
So would mine.

Here is water. Drink. 
They will look the other way.

Maybe you will be home in time to greet your children.

***

what astonishes me:

the gentle drape of this woman's arm around the neck of her enemy

her hand on his shoulder

the scars that circle his neck

the existence of civil war

the existence of war