Grief curls fingers into fists:
Ours pound cluttered
oak desks.
Theirs rest on closed
pine coffins.
a
Let’s cancel this
spring:
We’re courting death
in Iraq, not life.
So much greening belies
their dying.
a
Clench your fists
harder still:
Squeeze flower back to
bud.
Against all odds, press
bud into stem.
Allow no fragrance but
sad smoke, no birdsong but wailing.
a
Harbor no spring here
while their children perish -
that we might long for
life, both theirs and ours.
a