a bullet writes
& having writ
moves on.
an iraqi child is
playing with flowers in
the inner courtyard of her
home.
her face is startled by the
sound of a firefight. an
American bullet enters her
head & her body
shudders, bleeding
voicelessly to the
ground.
we americans do
not say “we are
sorry.
if we say any
thing, it is that
“this dead
child is a down
payment on Iraqi
democracy.”
tell her unconsolable mother––
“this dead child is a down
payment on Iraqi
democracy.”
tell her rageful father––
“this dead child is a down
payment on Iraqi
democracy.”
tell her sobbing sister––
“this dead child is a down
payment on Iraqi
democracy.”
we are
informed that the
insurgency
continues,
but we are too
busy with the
indulgences of our
lives to see
the child & the
children rolling
over & over to their
graves
& the exploding
cities, & the limbo of
the present, & the young
men throwing their
lives into the
fire.
we cannot
hear, we do not
see.
a bullets writes
& having writ
moves on.