Untitled (For Gaza)

We'll have to remember...

When I read the news,
it’s wrapped in sackcloth,
the color of charcoal.
A little darker every time.

I dread when it turns pitch black:
the last dispatch,
signal that the electricity’s run out,
the borders shut tight,
and ancient cities
about to be torn in two.

The truth has finally broken.
It will take years to walk again.

But, sure and inevitable,
its questions will whisper
like dust:

How did this happen?
How did you let it happen?
How could you let “never again”
turn into “again, and with enthusiasm”?

And we’ll have to answer.
We’ll have to remember.

How humanitarians saw terrorists
around every corner:
street vendors,
daycare workers,
doctors…

The tens of thousands dead,
the trauma wards leveled,
the schools,
the refugee camps…

I’ve only just arrived,
but I was at Sinai…
so I’ve been told.

Others are coming to join me,
schlepping themselves through the Rafah crossing,
their stories strapped to their backs.

By the time they arrive,
only one in five will still have a name,
their faces scratched out.

Finally, I’ve earned the right
to be angry with G-d.