For Gaza

I walk in the rain to Black Rocks

in search of a poem, though my head

is full of slogans, though I ask myself,

 

“What use is a poem

when no rhythm can soothe

the countless children carrying

the label W.C.N.S.R.

wounded

child

no

surviving

relatives

when no line length can contain the grief

no rhyming couplet can provide a reason

why this is acceptable

to anyone?”

 

Bare branches hanging

from granite clefts

remind me

of scorched olive trees

and beneath them

there’s a shape in the rock

like a child

swaddled in a shroud.

 

There’s no peace here

There’s no peace

No peace

No matter how many of us

are calling out for it.

 

Used by permission of the author.

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