Poetry Report: Damascus Morning
“When I run to the neighbors for help,
they are all staring at the ceiling”
The attached Google satellite image is of a neighborhood in the Damascus suburbs, reportedly gassed with chemical weapons. This poem is for the families of this area. May peace be with them soon.
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Damascus Morning
I imagine, a few days before school,
it's a morning of sun stroked trees,
just outside my back door,
in the courtyard with lime trees
and the wooden red chair, there
as always, to greet me
with my coffee and a book of poems.
As I read, I'm suspended
in a peace like a dove
landing in my hand to look around,
its whiteness reflecting light
back into my darkened face.
And when it's time to wake the children
and I walk back to their rooms
their chests aren't moving,
their eyes as blank as summer chalkboards.
When I run to the neighbors for help,
they are all staring at the ceiling,
mouths filled with bloody foam.
And after I've sobbed my own guts out
arranged them on the dirt floor
and sifted through their muddy remains
for an answer, I look to the sky
through the satellite photo
at you, staring down,
and wonder if I'm just a number
in an equation that can't be solved.
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