Jabalia

Relentless.

Back in November I wrote a poem in response to nearly unbearable news coming out of Gaza and the West Bank about the systematic devastation of civilian lives, homes, hospitals, schools, and the infrastructure that supported them. I had no idea then how long or brutally the onslaught would persist or that the numbers of Palestinian dead among the wreckage would climb beyond 35,000. I didn't post the poem then, but I felt moved to post it today, for what it's worth. Part of an ongoing prayer of lament for what is happening, in which, as Americans, we have to claim some complicity.

Jabalia, November 1

The hospitals have 

no empty beds.

Rescuers have no fuel.

The little water 

that remains carries 

toxic dust,

     fecal matter

        and blood 

           to the sea.

Small children play 

     with shards and stones

 and sticks they can make

     into swords. Some wait 

for remains 

   from yesterday's 

      evening meal. Some lie listless.

Their mothers gaze 

     into middle distance, 

          beyond weeping.

If we're willing, 

     we bear witness,

these days 

     almost unbearable. 

We see what we're willing to see.

     Or allowed. 

          Babies in white shrouds.

Desperate men 

     throwing stones at tanks. 

And after them men

in pressed suits speaking

words that cover a multitude

of sorrows with solemn

reassurances that nothing

is broken that money and

missiles can't restore.