Take/Leave
[after a photograph in the New York Times]
I saw a picture on the front page of a newspaper one day. A young couple, with two children under 10, dead on the pavement. Killed by the opposition as they were trying to flee. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind, though I’d seen many, many—far too many—like it in my years.
Things are getting ugly here. Things are ugly elsewhere. Things have been ugly for as long as humankind has wandered the earth. Why must we hate? Why must we kill? Why must we take? What must we leave behind?
I cannot comprehend the misery that any people would willingly inflict on any other group of people.
Take/Leave
[after a photograph in the New York Times]
You can’t recall the headline, but
the full-color, above-the-fold photo left debris—
like the cratered concrete encircling the scene.
Take that pear, this loaf of bread.
Leave your blankie, your bear.
The caption confirms your fear:
“Soldiers try to save a man—the only one
of four at the moment who still had a pulse.”
Leave the teapot—
Poppa’s wedding gift to us.
Your gaze can’t escape this family,
toppled by a muscular wind.
Puddles of blood cooling on the mortared bridge.
Take your toothbrush.
Leave Poppa’s urn.
Glazed eyes staring
from cracked glasses on a lad’s waxen face.
The stitched brows, etched into the forehead of his mother.
Leave some food in Zelda's bowl.
Leave the door open a crack—someone will find her.
The daughter hugs pavement in moon-boots
and a powder-blue parka, hood hiding her face,
bloodied backpack frozen to her shoulders.
Take the backstreets.
Leave the smoldering city bus.
Two medics in mismatched camo
rifle through the pockets of the father,
who momentarily clings to life.
They’ve taken the hospitals,
taken the main roads.
A soldier stares,
eyebrows soft, mouth agape,
giving orders or whispering final rites.
Keep your head down.
Keep moving.
Seeking solace, your eyes
land upon the living,
who go on living (as we must).
They’re shooting behind. Keep calm.
They’re shelling ahead. Keep quiet.
They’re scarring the sky. Keep still.
In the distance, a pink-cheeked fellow
strides past the bodies
as if they were crumpled cans.
Take leave.
