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?      

 

— Cheryl Sommese