Thousands of feet
Below you
There is a small
Boy
Running from
Your bombs.
If he were
To show up
At your mother's
House
On a green
Sea island
Off the coast
Of Georgia
He'd be invited in
For dinner.
Now, driven,
You have shattered
His bones.
He lies steaming
In the desert
In fifty or sixty
Or maybe one hundred
Oily, slimy
Bits.
If you survive
& return
To your island
Home
& your mother's
Gracious
Table
Where the cup
Of lovingkindness
Overflows
The brim
(&
From which
No one
In memory
Was ever
Turned)
Gather yourself.
Set a place
For him.
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