Sanctioning and Pretending
They seemed invigorated
fresh
I could see life in their eyes:
like when the elderly hold a newborn
or a mother strokes her gloomy tot’s hair,
believing the touch will ignite
a boosting charge.
I wanted to feel that way
to be a few steps from euphoria
but my thoughts had been siphoned
evacuating my body parts—leaving them empty,
like an abandoned structure
with no furnishings.
A glass of water, if only I could hold a glass of water
maybe then I might find spring?
Instead I parch like a novice hiker
with all the liquid my physical manifestation requires:
all this water
but it does not soothe me.
Those images, and clippings, and dislocated lives—
can they be compartmentalized?
Artillery mercilessly ripping flesh,
homes reduced to hand-sized
throwing stones.
Might I see but not query—
read but fail to compute
what my people have orchestrated
devised under the pretext of honor
yet carried out with deceit?
The neighbors talk tough,
pretend,
proclaim the acts were noble:
freedom—fighting
shouting as if
the two are indistinguishable.
Supposing those children
and mothers
and paternal eyes
had no faces—no daily emotion—no right to life,
particularly if they did live
according to our edict.
They
carry on like little has changed:
procuring a defining handbag
or car
the latest electronic
something stimulating to boost them.
But the charge is not lasting so they seek more
while a world away has been
destroyed.
I want to rummage in the marketplace
touch my lover’s smile
feel content
embrace life,
but how do I do this
with bloody hands?
How can I be at peace
when my compatriots
are me?