Day 193

You must live / to tell my story.  I am afraid
I am not telling this well enough – loud enough,
clearly enough.  I have been thinking all day
of the mother grinding donkey feed for her children.
The children foraging for weeds they can eat.
About what it would be to wake not knowing
if you or your children would live to see evening.
I am telling it as I hear it, and still it is not enough.
I cannot describe the stench of the air.
I cannot say what it’s like to walk through corridors of blood.
I am not there.  I am not there.  I sit here
listening, listening. A breeze from the Pacific
sifts through my garden.  My black and white cat
slips through the slats of the fence, fur
scented with the rosemary bush he has walked past
to make his way home.  I have worked, eaten, spoken with friends.
Now I am waiting for words. How is it? How to tell
what it is that is lost?