“We sit close, but without touching; a thousand flickering
images pass through the screen. A hand stretches toward another,
stopping just short. A woman makes fists in front
of a pile of rubble, and though we can’t understand her words,
we know. Anyone who ever knew someone who’s lost knows.
Anyone not turned to piles of stone. Tonight, who has a right
to risk bringing life into this? The images shift—
flashing blue lights, twisted metal, the angry eyes
and stiff lips of fearful men, a Glock here, a Bushmaster
there, refugee fingers wrapped around chain link, and flags,
an abundance of flags. Mothers show premature
wrinkles without shame. Sirens lure the fearful men
into the rocks. Tonight, with effort, the hands find
each other. It’s the job before us, the not turning to stone.”