for the children
of palestine, afghanistan, syria, iraq, lebanon, sudan, yemen, congo,
a child sits criss cross applesauce on a colorful rug in kindergarten legs across one another small hands folded neatly across their lap, hands raised when a question is asked shoe laces untied the bunny ear method has yet to be learned mothers fuss over their children fathers smile with pride take one flap of a scarf, wound it tightly around your child’s neck, an extra pair of oversized gloves make sure each little finger is tucked in snugly squeeze your child’s shoulders and cheeks tuck their head under your chin and wrap your arms around them like its the last time. listen to their heartbeat pound softly with life through the layers of scarves and sweaters give them, a kiss atop their head say a little prayer because for every moment your child is out of sight is a moment you worry. but a father can only worry so much can only do so much to protect their child from the cold chill of death that tends to coat our land, our homes. sometimes an extra scarf doesn't do the job right an extra pair of gloves won't protect a child’s small hands from the shrapnel an extra scarf won’t protect a child’s jugular vein from a bullet a mother’s warmth a mother’s pleas a mother’s cries a father’s hands cannot stop the airstrike after it has been launched a father is now digging the cement blocks and bricks from their child’s school digging digging digging and calling and digging and calling "ya albi" (my heart) "wa zoya" (my child) in hopes that the layers of scarves and extra gloves might appear from under the rubble saying "yes baba" i am here i am alive but instead airstrike after rocket after missile after bomb after landmine after airstrike after rocket after missile after bomb after landmine after airstrike after rocket after missile after bomb after landmine gives us lifeless children with gashes on their faces small white shrouds filled with neatly folded small hands over their chests legs blown off sitting criss cross applesauce is now a luxury they'll never have fathers rocking their lifeless child in their calloused now blood soaked hands mothers, refusing to wash their blood soaked hands saying, "This Is the last imprint I have left Of my Child. I cannot wash these hands."