For Rachel Goldberg-Polin and all the mothers of Israel and Palestine, Sept. 2, 2024
The squirrel rolls a pawpaw fruit
in its mouth—green, whole—trying
not to drop it as she scurries
away. The clouds. The clouds pause
in a blue sky they don’t know
is blue. The sky does not witness
this. There is a screen
between me and the world. The weather
is perfect. First pleasant day in weeks.
No humidity. Evergreen. The neighbor’s
chickens still declare the day,
this day, another one. Bumblebee. Lands
on the cushion beside me. I can’t
move from my seat. Can’t feel
the gentle air. I have watched
the video of a mother telling her boy
before burying him in the ground he is now
free. She says finally she says finally over
and over incantation to a god trapped
in a tunnel. I hear the wails of every mother
searching for a child in the rubble, in a tunnel,
in a uniform, on a soccer field, child
called collateral, child called soldier,
driving a tank, crouching beside
a tank, gathering water
from a puddle of mud. What a day
for sunshine. What a day
for a play date, they are back
in the house, my boys, at least
they were, I’ve been out here so long I could
not move, today is a holiday, we have no
where to be, my boys are home, they are
playing hide and seek in the house.
I need to find them.
