Listen

Listen to the doctor,

the pediatrician, the head

of the children’s hospital

in North Gaza.  Listen

to him mourn his son.

Listen to his cries, his wailing.

his son killed with a bomb

flung on the Jabaliya camp.

Listen to the journalist.

Listen to her report

about oxygen concentrators

and tanks  that kept babies

alive in the ICU. Listen to her

recount how Israeli soldiers

destroyed the concentrators

and tanks, that many patients,

and babies, have now died

starved of oxygen. Listen.

Listen to the story of Masuna,

her child’s face smashed

by bullets, who needs

surgery away from Gaza,

who cannot leave as Israelis

deny visas to family members,

friends, her doctor, who

will need to accompany

her. She will die soon.

Can you convince the Israeli

censor to let her go? What

about the plan, to starve, bomb,

kill, expel everybody from

North Gaza, to then bring

bulldozers and bricklayers in?

What can you or I do to stop

this slow and fast moving

murder? What is murder

in Gaza? What is shooting

a child in the face? What

is dressing a Palestinian

civilian in Israeli army

clothes and putting him

out in the open to trick

and draw Hamas fire

to learn the positions

of the rebel fighters?

What does rebel mean?

What is dignity? What

are the rules of war?

Who is writing the new

regs, the acceptable codes

of conduct, the eight

year old who takes

the beeping pager

from the kitchen counter

to her dad at their home

near Beirut, to explode,

and kill her, the girl?

What about the thousands

of facial injuries, the blind

eyes caused by this act

of war? Putting explosives

in hand held personal

devices–who controls

the rogue use of pagers?

Are there international

standards? A treaty….

and who will not sign

such a convention? What

rough beast is slouching

now towards you and me,

out of what lair, bringing

what affirming bull

shit? This is how poetry

ends as well but here

we go, on stage,

and the bombs are not

that smart. They come

in all weights and

measures. They whistle

past. They carry

two thousand pound

loads; make city blocks

into craters; bury

humans under

the rubble. But

we know our family

members are shifting

below the concrete

beams and cinder

blocks. We hear

our own lamentations.

We hear their

dying cries.