Photo courtesy of Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor


These tears fall into buckets, run

to streams and rivers. These tears,

shed weight from the body, leave


a light patina like drops

on the windowpane. How

to go on with the day, cook, eat,


walk, call friends, write? These

tears do not dry on the glass.

They harden into rocks and stones.


Oh, to sweep them away. To clean

the soul in spring. But there

is no spring for brothers and sisters


screaming before food trucks

and food-planes while on the hill,

behind sandbags, marksmen carry


out orders to kill at random, to create

confusion, to cause a stampede,

a diversión, while from the sky


warplanes drop two thousand

pound bombs as special forces

storm an apartment where hostages


are held.  “All’s fair…” they say,

the balance on this operation,

two hundred and ninety four


Palestinians dead to four hostages

come home alive without negotiation,

or concession, or pity. These tears


I shed even if I cannot stop them

for those–who have no empathy–

who do not care what I say or do.