Photo courtesy of NBC News
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.