Everyday near page three
a shawled mother joins a gathered crowd
layered against dry dusty wind
and with fisted knuckles
claws her drenched cheeks.
Near page twenty a woman in a nightgown
squats barefoot on cement
buries her face in the chest of her brother
tastes his bitten heart.
In this daily procession the first to arrive
have traveled from farthest away:
south of the Equator, east of the Atlantic.
Turning, the newspaper pages
rustle names of places closer to home.
Near page thirty a massive crowd
braces the daughters of a woman
police repeatedly ignored.
Framed photos of her smiling, close-up
swing from their necks as they walk.
The friend of a student screams
holding her ears—cafeteria crossfire.
And the blood-drained silhouette of a mother
her little girl raped and dismembered.
We're nearing page fifty
approaching the comics, their block letter words.
But the stragglers arrive
jump out of the bushes onto the funeral train:
one paragraph widows, one sentence families
more unnamed mourners, unnamed lives.
Today on page one a woman falters
and the procession waits to begin.
She holds a smooth-boned skull
eye-level in the motionless flat of her hand
and says, This, this is my son.
Appears in Poets Against the War
First published in Green Fuse
Back to Selected poems