by Amy Shimshon-Santo
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Dead bodies are placed into a mass grave on the outskirts of Mariupol, Ukraine, on March 9. (Evgeniy Maloletka/AP) |
considering that bombs
leave craters in the earth
making it difficult
to mobilize hospitals,
carry pregnant mothers
across fields of rubble
comprehending the cold breath of sunday
broken bridges,
families gathered beneath them
without exact destinations
beyond a border
understanding that mammals with bombs
are cold hearted
explosive-death-machines,
considering that men
—and I will call them that
because of their bombs —
explode sites
leaving the enduring silence
of family members
understanding that a cadaver
cannot speak
& I am just a storyteller
still living
with the possibility of voice
I will make my breath a sign
painted in horror
across the sky
that begs the bombing
to stop
Amy Shimshon-Santo is a poet and educator who believes that culture is a powerful tool for personal and social transformation. Her interdisciplinary work connects the arts, education, and urbanism. She is the author of Even the Milky Way Is Undocumented (Unsolicited Press, Pushcart Prize & Rainbow Reads Award nominee).