Counting the Dead
It’s like trying to count the stars
while the stars keep falling
each has a name
and a number—
steadily rising
we try to record each one
give them a place in the sky
of memory
but there are so many
shining, falling, shining
by tradition, the brightest stars
were given Arabic names
Achernar—Akhir an-Nahr
end of the river
Fomalhaut — Fam al-Hut
mouth of the fish
Altair— At-Ta’ir
flying eagle
the unnamed ones shimmer
in galaxies we cannot reach
so too with the dead—
even the smallest ones
who did not yet have a name
tremble with radiance
long past their dying
each an absence
still present
a gleam of memory
in place of a star
aligned in a luminous rampart
against the tsunami of night
Notes on the Map of Survival
“There is no comprehending this.” – Mohammed El-Kurd
Gaza weather forecast: a scattering of airstrikes
in early morning, thickening by noon.
Dust heavy at bomb sites; likewise, rubble.
At the crater left by the explosion
survivors stagger around the perimeter,
checking themselves for signs of life.
What a body looks like pressed
beneath the treads of a tank,
flesh squeezed out like red playdough,
bones crushed, marrow exuding.
They came for the journalists one by one.
They came for the people all at once.
One bomb striking an apartment building
does the work of a hundred snipers—
quicker, easier.
To wake to hunger
to feel it explode in the brain
the body the bones the organs
to watch the children wasting
their eyes growing larger
their cheeks sinking to concave wells
of hopelessness while aid trucks
wait on the other side of the border
and settlers chant in hatred:
let them die let them die let them die—
The boy in the bed.
The boy in the bed in the tent.
The boy in the bed in the tent on an IV.
The boy in the bed in the tent on an IV, burning.
The father amputated his daughter’s leg at home,
her ankle a bloody torn mass of ripped ligaments,
tissue ending in nothing, foot in a bloody plastic bag,
the mouth of the plastic bag open to the camera,
demanding: SEE THIS.
The children have lost everything but their breath.
Sea without fish, world without pulse.
The ghosts of reason aren’t here anymore.
They died.
The ghosts of compassion, the same.
In the darkling light the map of survival
is barely legible.
A few notes are scribbled in the margins,
injunctions for the journey:
Walk as if the sun has already gone dark.
Write as if tomorrow’s moon can somehow find the sky.
Artists & Writers in This Issue
| Velibor Baćo | Alexis Krasilovsky | Nathaniel Lachenmeyer | Jeff Larason | Lisa Suhair Majaj | Liliana Mercau | Susanna Fiona Murray | Laura Ann Reed | Michael Roberts | John Whalen-Bridge | Hilmi M. Zawati |
