Lying in bed last night
cuddling close
my son mumbles, "this
is the first war I've lived through"
and worries an Iraqi soldier
will come to capture him.
I know he's scared, I say,
try to reassure, tell him
the war is far away -
but is it really?
assaulting our eyes and ears on TV
stabbing our hearts.
How far away is terror?
nuclear button
chemical breath
oil in the sea
he is right to be afraid.
And next morning, I hear of the dying
of women and children
burnt "beyond recognition"
in bunker/bomb shelter
perhaps at the very moment we lay there, cuddling
safe (for now) in our clean sheets.
We linger today over breakfast
cereal, oranges, ordinary life
and I drive to work with the taste
of blood, of ashes
in my throat.
From Witness: anthology of poetry, ed. John B. Lee
(Serengeti Press, 2004)
also: Water Children, by Ellen Jaffe
(Mini-Mocho Press, 2002)
