THE VICTIMS

(written at the beginning of the Iraq War)

The bombs we drop fall on all of us.

The houses that are rubble are my neighbors’ houses

and now we live with them in rubble.

The boy who lost his arm, the girl who lost her legs,

the old man who was shot while walking to the store,

the violinist who lost his fingers,

the painter who lost her sight.

All their blood is our blood.

When we invade, we are invaded.

The guns we shoot are shot at you and me

and at our mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters,

our cousins and friends.

We are the enemy. We are the victims.

Every man in chains is one of us.

The sky now dark with smoke

brings darkness to our lives.

Their thirst is on our tongues.

Their groans of hunger are our groans.

Where can we run and hide to save ourselves?

If only we could reach the land of common ground

and smell gardenias in our yard,

hear birds above us in the sycamores,

watch them at our feeders,

spend afternoons drinking tea,

laughing at the cloudless sky,

the setting sun.