POETRY: December 14, 2012
That morning
in Brooklyn
I heard
not on every station
just on one radio program
just in the middle
of one segment
sometime around 8:40
that a group of young people
had been blown up by a missile
fired from a U.S. drone.
How awful
I thought
to be just sitting
with your friends
in a park
on a summer’s evening.
They are all dead.
That’s all I know
so don’t ask me
how many
their names or ages
what the first responders did or thought
where or when or who
or what the town went through.
The Catholic priest
speaking on the radio
had just returned
not from the town
where it happened
(how many months ago?)
but from the city of Kabul
where twenty-five young people
have dedicated themselves
to ending the killing.
They tell him
the drones
hover every other night
over the villages,
they sound
low, buzzing.
Why?
By noon that is what everyone in America wants to know.
In Connecticut,
State Trooper Vance says
the weapons
are being traced
back to the workbench
where they were being assembled,
says
we will put
every single resource
into this investigation.
But in Afghanistan,
everyone knows,
the drone will not be traced back
to the workbench where it was assembled,
to the National Guardsman or woman
inside a windowless room in Syracuse,
only 259 driving miles from Newtown,
less as the crow flies,
to the president,
who, by mid-afternoon,
has called a press conference
to say
they had their entire lives
ahead of them.
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