Day 370

Wipe the tears
from the hearts of my children
if I am killed, the mother says
to someone she has just met,
and he, who barely knows
her name, nods his head,
agrees.  With his cloth of horror,
his cloth of fear, his cloth
of memory, he will wipe
the children’s hearts
so they can beat unimpeded.
With his cloth of history
he will clean their wounds, with
his cloth of outrage, his cloth
of disbelief, he will staunch
the bleeding, pack the lacerations.
He will dip the cloth
in contaminated water
that will turn clear and pure
with his goodness, his intention.  He will
wipe the children’s hearts
free of tears so they will have room
for joy, for laughter, for their mother’s
love, which, though
she is dead, will swell
and fill every vessel.