If you could speak
From your midget-coffin-
If your sweet voice could carry through
Your little mouth
Cavernous and hollowed out by death,
Encrusted with old blood
Stopped in its tracks between pearly new teeth
That once shone when your face blossomed into smiles;
Or enlivened with laughter
Over some little silliness, some little surprise-
Those little things, before scary big things took over-
Big feuds between little people over little things
Made to seem big….
If you could speak
From beneath the settling dust of oblivion
Falling, falling quietly over hearts-
You’d speak of
When the sky lit up with fires-
Malevolent and blind- as they rained Death,
Leaving the trail of bloodied corpses
And shell-shocked mourners.
And often, battered little bodies-
Timorous and traumatized-
Confounded by unanswered questions.
You’d speak of
The desperate, endless waiting
For a healing hand-
Perhaps your mother’s finger to cling on to;
A warm breath to reassure
“It’ll be all right”…
But the breath was cold,
The hand lifeless and brittle.
You’d speak of
The stinging, deep pain
Of a disconsolate helplessness,
And the terrifying abyss of cruel questions
Hulking all around you,
Pressing upon your battered self,
Confounding your infantile senses.
You’d speak of
How death took so long to reach
As you writhed in your own blood.
If you could speak-
The layered silences
Over the tiny mound of earth
That shrouds you
Would be ripped through
By the still, small voice…
Piercing, shattering, tearing, shuddering…
To ask of us
An overwhelming question-
Why?
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