by John Linstrom
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| Rescuers pull a child out of the rubble of a building in Khan Younis, on October 24, 2023. Photo: Mahmud Hams / AFP / Getty via The Atlantic |
for Gaza
The sun darkened, and the moon,
stars falling from heaven, powers
shaken. A toddler is lifted
from a pocket of air
below a concrete slab barely held
by neighbors: her eyes are hollow planets,
dry, they stare—these are not her parents,
she had just been napping and now
the world has gone all dust and jagged.
It was very loud, then very quiet.
This child is the same age
as my own daughter
who wakes with the sun
in the crib across the hall
each day. This child is your child;
she is one of two million.
O God, that you would come down
but you nor no one ever else would be
this child’s mother, nor the quilt
to pull down from over the couch,
the rocking chair, the picture
of the rabbit at the end of the hall,
the pitcher of juice, the stuffed dog. This child
will now be fed the bread of tears: you
have given her tears to drink. This night
is too dark, carries no answer, and the only words
that come in the furtive inky air are keep awake.
When she cries, what father will come in to lift her
in the night? Keep awake. Was there a sibling
for whom those dry eyes moistened? Keep awake.
O God, that you would come down and shield
these children from the blinding grief that falls
with hate, from the ancient territorial tragedy
as we grasp for the revealing of some balm
this child is stricken to the root
deeper than tears, than her voice
and my God may we keep awake, for all
our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth
until we cry out for this stricken girl
and for her loose our voices and
O God kindle our brushwood souls
and fire our water to boiling—powers shaken,
restore us that we might be saved from this,
that all might be saved in this night
for yes, I see, you have come down
and are there: crushed beneath the stone,
and there, sprinting over, lifting boulders, and
there: neighbors lift you and you stare
out among us as stars fall from heaven
and staring, wordlessly demand,
for every child, for every shining light
threatened in the falling night, to keep awake.
stars falling from heaven, powers
shaken. A toddler is lifted
from a pocket of air
below a concrete slab barely held
by neighbors: her eyes are hollow planets,
dry, they stare—these are not her parents,
she had just been napping and now
the world has gone all dust and jagged.
It was very loud, then very quiet.
This child is the same age
as my own daughter
who wakes with the sun
in the crib across the hall
each day. This child is your child;
she is one of two million.
O God, that you would come down
but you nor no one ever else would be
this child’s mother, nor the quilt
to pull down from over the couch,
the rocking chair, the picture
of the rabbit at the end of the hall,
the pitcher of juice, the stuffed dog. This child
will now be fed the bread of tears: you
have given her tears to drink. This night
is too dark, carries no answer, and the only words
that come in the furtive inky air are keep awake.
When she cries, what father will come in to lift her
in the night? Keep awake. Was there a sibling
for whom those dry eyes moistened? Keep awake.
O God, that you would come down and shield
these children from the blinding grief that falls
with hate, from the ancient territorial tragedy
as we grasp for the revealing of some balm
this child is stricken to the root
deeper than tears, than her voice
and my God may we keep awake, for all
our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth
until we cry out for this stricken girl
and for her loose our voices and
O God kindle our brushwood souls
and fire our water to boiling—powers shaken,
restore us that we might be saved from this,
that all might be saved in this night
for yes, I see, you have come down
and are there: crushed beneath the stone,
and there, sprinting over, lifting boulders, and
there: neighbors lift you and you stare
out among us as stars fall from heaven
and staring, wordlessly demand,
for every child, for every shining light
threatened in the falling night, to keep awake.
John Linstrom’s first collection of poems To Leave for Our Own Country is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in April of 2024. This poem, “Keep Awake,” was written in his role as Poet in Residence at Trinity Lower East Side Lutheran Parish in Manhattan and was read in worship for the First Sunday in Advent. His poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Northwest Review, North American Review, and The Christian Century. He is the series editor of The Liberty Hyde Bailey Library for Cornell University Press, making available the works of environmental poet-philosopher L. H. Bailey (1858-1954). John holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Environment from Iowa State University and a PhD in English and American Literature from New York University. He lives with his wife and their young daughter in Queens, NY.