Day 170/171

Guernica.  The head thrown back,
mouth open, an angle
wider than any human mouth, a scream
unending, uncontainable. Agonized.
Never to forget.
Hours, whole afternoons
standing in front of it
at the MOMA in New York.
The faces the contorted bodies
At fifteen, taking the Long Island Railroad
into the city, then the subway.
Week after week
to stand before the painting over and over
compelled to study it, to take it in
by something I couldn’t – then –
understand   Yesterday the video
of a child, maybe Dashiell’s age,
alone, no parents, carrying
an empty carseat
through the streets of Gaza
crying to no one, no one