Children in Iran

There are hushes below my lips.

The war of costs to my heart.

Not letting go:

Shajareh Tayyebeh girls’ elementary school in Minab,

Bombed.

I have not seen the faces of these Iranian children, ages 6 to 12.

The faces of their loved ones.

Which ones were the poets?

Which ones were the engineers?

Which ones wanted peace on Earth?

*

Imagine us spending an entire month fleshing out this story, these Stories.

But there isn’t enough of anything to bury the dead now.

Enough love, enough food, enough shelter, enough safety.

*

Take a sugar stick and twirl it around in your morning coffee.

Watch it dissolve.

Take your first sip.

It’s sweet to you.

Those children will never taste sweetness again.

*

Take your favorite book and open it to page 100.

Whatever is on the page answers that nagging question you’ve had.

Your inner eye is now satisfied.

What will these children no longer see?

They will never find an answer to their longings again.

*

But we continue.

The world hasn’t even stopped.

To see. To listen.

Potentiality has run out of gas.

And we complain about it being a dollar more expensive.

How much will these funerals cost?

Costs. Costs. Costs.

*

There is a hushnesss below my lips.

There is anger above my eyebrows.

There are competing vessels on my feet.

*

How many were poets?

*

But this is already old news, isn't it?