For the Children ((a prayer of peace))

I want a bandage.
I want a shield
so the wind of this reality
doesn’t sting so badly.
I want to scream
and hold all the mothers of dead children
in my arms,
the way they hold their limp, lifeless bodies in their arms,
crying, “Why??”
as if knowing the answer is some sort of balm.
It isn’t.
We will never get these lives back.

Our ancestors are crying for us.
“They don’t listen.”
A prayer only goes so far.
They must listen.
Who will listen?
Listen to us begging—

C E A S E F I R E

Begging for their lives.
The children—all of them.
For each life stolen is the
life of a child.
The infants—
The wise elders—
The mothers—
The sweet sixteens—
We are all children.

Love, rescue us.

Plant your seed and let it spread like a virus,
roots on a vine.
Wrap yourself so tightly around their hearts
that they must stop,
catching their breath—
That in that instant they may hear
and listen
and heed—

C E A S E F I R E

This is not what we’re made for.
Love, extinguish the fire,
and from the ashes may you grow.
This is my prayer of peace.
For the children.

—January 6, 2024—