Page 44 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #11

Three
One lies restless in the small hours, the dead of night— three in the morning and worried about medical motorcycles whizzing passed a wife on her way
home from work this evening—
distressed about tear gas and bullets fired into Gazans
at the border fence
West Bank rioters—
hounded by knives
shootings
the sound
of fighter jets
crackling the sky in two.
Don’t tell one how dark the eyes just before sunrise. Don’t
tell one how to escape here
or to watch Seinfeld and
order pizza. Pay attention.
This is our world. Now.
One weighed down by a century
dead while demonstrating for peace— trying to rise up and see hope
that we want it—disheartened by chants of kill the Arabs kill the Jews college campuses dimmed to ghastly— hearing two bomb blasts
gunfire last gasps
school girls
kidnapped
one pregnant
mother and her child
buried in rubble—three dead.
Don’t tell one to light two eyes
and shine like three dawns. Don’t
tell one how to find a job or exercise twice as much or to open three beers. Pay attention. This is our World.
War. One. Two. Three.
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michael dicKel