How does one write poetry
while bombs cluster fuck humanity
and babies are born in bomb shelters?
Ukraine is the latest round of neglect
of children too long the object
of adult selfish-need to be free
of responsibility for anyone but “me”.
Each night children bed down
on cold ground, homeless, hungry, alone.
Or, if lucky, four to a bed before eviction
kicks them and their mom to the street.
Each day children dodge bullets
not only to and from school,
but behind doors barricaded by desks.
Suicide soars among the young.
They watch fire devour tree and flower
as rivers run dry or expire in mud
left behind by a flood.
They watch oceans mired in plastic mulch
rise to drown coastlines and streets
where sewers overflow to taint
the water they drink from lead pipes.
Those are the lucky ones
who need not walk water miles
in jugs held aloft on tired feet
with tired minds and tired smiles.
Plastic lurks in cattle feed and breast milk.
We feed our children plastic.
Is this the world we dream of leaving our children?
Is this what allows us to press our tangled hands in our laps
as tanks and cluster bombs mow our children down ?
Ukraine is another chapter in the book we refuse to read,
lest we take some responsibility.
This is the only poem I have today
as I watch children await
the school bus driving them to their fate
written in the book of life.
Read the damn book!
annarino writes 