Incommensurate

In the spice drawer is a bottle
nearly empty— tiny red flakes

of dried pepper from the hills
where, just a few days ago,

a colorless burning descended
through the air. In the beds

of emergency vehicles,
did the children whose heads

loll as if sightless
smell what was coming?

Don’t talk about pity.
Don’t talk about shock

or outrage. Don’t flutter
your flag at poor half-mast.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Bombing for peace.

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