Day 400

The poet speaks of a mother
dragging her two daughters quickly,
being chased by a tank.  A young man —
the poet — argues with his father
about which kind of plane
is dropping bombs 
on their neighborhood. Night 
illumined by fire.  The children
running as fast as they can, tripping,
the mother picking up the smaller one,
wiping her dusty face 
as she runs.  Explosion
after explosion.  You can feel
(as the poet describes
it) how desperate, how terrified
they are.  No way even
to find the road, so littered
with concrete.  With bodies.
We never see planes in the sky
in Gaza, the poet tells us, except
for the ones that are attacking us.