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.