One picture
among thousands,
she holds the ghost
of her child in her arms.
Their fragile bones,
draped in flesh thin as muslin.
Sunken eyes
begging for crumbs
The image will linger behind your eyelids forever,
seared into the tissue of your brain
like a scar marking your helplessness.
Infants, diapered carefully with garbage bags,
by hands that tremble with love
and grief –
hands that cannot rescue,
cannot feed,
only hold and comfort.
Starved by those who ration
outrage instead of bread,
who speak of tunnels
and vengeance
while children waste.
As if babies can be combatants,
and civilians reasonable sacrifices.
Your throat tightens –
the taste of ash and sorrow
coating your tongue
And the testament glows on your screen –
like a fire consuming tents
and people
The tears burn
before they fall.
Help a family in Palestine
Blood in the Bramble 
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