In Ukraine there are buildings
without roofs, without floors;

people try to live in them
without arms, legs, or faces.

We call that “a war.”
In USA there is a place and a face

that looks the same.
Here, we call it “unfortunate.”

In Nepal we call the sliding of a mountain
into its valley “a catastrophe.”

In USA we call it “consequence,”
call it “inevitable,” call it “foreseeable.”

We call it “another story” on the news,
a “did you hear about” on the Internet.

In Germany the people turn their backs to us
and in Canada, they raise a whitened tight fist.

In USA we don’t think much of either.
We have our own problems with history.

In the meantime, clouds roll overhead in all places —
nimbus, cumulonimbus — we call them by big names.

In scattered moonlight we call them lovely;
in bright daylight we don’t call them much.

Wherever they are, they look much the same;
their teeth don’t have an accent.

In Ukraine or Nepal, they rain without ceasing.
In Germany and Canada, they gnash along without an end.

In USA — good old country, good old bones —
we just put up an umbrella and wait to die

surprised by the moral of the story —
when it ends it won’t care about our forefathers.

It will rain on us too regardless of the colors
of our flag, our sacred blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T