Ode to a Dead Iraqi Child

Yesterday you were laughing
and playing with your sister
You knew nothing about war
You knew only that you loved
your sister and your parents
and your grandparents and of
course , your dog .

You were free , you were alive
You were gleefully chasing your
sister in the open field
when you heard the planes.


You looked up squinting into the sun
Then you heard the first bomb
You began to run towards your home
aware of your mother screaming your name .

You never made it .

You were torn and shredded by an illegal
cluster bomb dropped by an illegal invading
force fighting an illegal war .

Conveniently swept
under a rug of
debris called
Collateral Damage .

Sleep peacefully little boy
I will take your outstretched hand
I will give you life with my words
For only poetry can strike deep enough
to give you breath again
For only poetry can join your innocent
heart with ours .

Perhaps these words from Alice Walker will touch the hearts of your perpetrators.

Thousands of feet below you
There is a a small boy
running from your bombs.

If he were to show up
at your mothers house
on a green Sea island
off the coast of Georgia

He'd be invited in for dinner.

Now, driven , you have shattered his bones .

He lies steaming in the desert
In fifty or sixty
or maybe one hundred
oily, slimy bits.

If you survive and return
to your island home
and your mother's gracious table
where the cup of loving kindness overflows the brim
( and from which no one in memory was ever turned )

Gather yourself.

Set a place for him.