I woke to the whispers
of those who prayed
as they were killed
layers of them lying
on my brow for
minutes, hours—sent
dripping out of horrors
CNN spilled
no one witnessed
or experienced since
no one’s ever
watching when Death
signals his snow’s pattern
at 3 AM
falling on heads
of us sleepless, calling
out from letters
boxes captioned
quoting agony for
audiences
unversed in dread
and I rose wet, drowning
in all of our
failed promises
coming back from ‛over
there,’ repeated
solemnly with
flair—the anchor singing
of a desert
where ’Merikans
happened to ‘free’ (capture)
oceans of dried
‘unfortunates’
thirsting for a fighting
chance to thrive, turn
in their ‘bold threats’
and turn in their graves for
a romantic
cause—to be killed
(figuratively) in
a battle their
kids never thought
warranted unjust war
like us, those kids
thought they’d wake up
sweating out anything
other than their
own blood while filmed.