my problems now, so trivial:
when they leave the screen door open
welcoming summer's heat
into my air-conditioned home,
and flies that land and vomit
on our fruit bowl
filled with nourishing foods
how unfortunate!
the heat, the flies, the spoiled food.
i trip over shoes in the doorway
dirt and grass clippings gather in the corners
i must mop, yet again!
this woman's work.
mop, sweep, diaper, comfort, cry.
these never-ending, silent expectations
could they ever understand?
we know them as numbers
but she knew them by their names
carefully chosen as she swept a hand over her swollen belly
as knees that dimpled and shook with a first step
as the sweet faces that lit up when offered their favorite food
as deep, brown eyes that cried
liquid and endless
when they fell and scraped an elbow
as hands that held hers
soft and plump and trusting
now they lie in rubble and dust
blood and glass
small, broken bodies
taken for the sake of
politics and religion
freedom and control
they are the sacrifices
but she was never offering
this is the dissonance:
sometimes i cry because the living room is a mess
and sometimes i cry because another woman's children are dead
