Photo courtesy of Al Jazeera
You say we are all traumatized by this genocide,
that we are responsible as well, that we cannot hide
under books or pillows from drones, fighter jets
and two thousand pound bombs. But what can
we do with the fat slices of pie served in these
fifty states? Who shall we heal with comforting
lullabies where no bombs fall although this is
the rub, they do, they do. They are falling
in our minds. They are pulping hearts broken
into bits, shrapnel flowing in every artery,
blocking up the works, death hungry and waiting
eagerly for blood stoppered, shut off, sealed.
My blood. Your blood. Our blood bank bleeds
over, keeling, comatose, drained, dying.