Gaza
bony, big-bellied,
flies sipping their tears
toddlers suck their mothers dry
they whimper
at tight belly and thirst
the infant stuffs dusty fingers
in her mouth to quell her need
her bewildered gaze shows
where hope has gone
how can I
from my chair
reach
this child, or the next,
the next, the next
I, with plenty to eat
watch the daily desolation
pray, donate dollars
write poems?
it is not enough
Oh, the true heartbreak of that last line, of all of it. So well said and it lands hard on the heart... as it should.
The kind poet hurts
In her body, in our kin’s
In our shared hurt heart