NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #12 — Gray



Gray


It is a two-tone
gray wound.

It is two woulds:
one high, one low.

Two guns.
Two bullets.

Two people 
bound by

one wound,
one would 

and too many 
coulds and shoulds.

It is a grain of sand,
a small glistening

that sticks in 
the throat of 

the muscle, a 
piece of what 

it must become, a 
shard of what it 

never was, a speck
in the eye of 

a gray sky,
a two-tone

gray sky
the color of lead.












Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....



Running




We ran there,
my mother and I.

We were running with the group,
running in the street,
running for the line.

We were running when the first explosion 
tore the crowd apart.

My brother was in that crowd.

My mother ran to where he had been,
to where we saw him last.

I ran after her, calling his name.
We could not find him.

We found only blood, and 
the pieces 
of other mother’s sons,
other sister’s brothers.

Last month, we lost my father.
Now we have lost my brother.
Our world is torn apart.

My name is Abida
and I live in Baghdad.

My name is Badria
and I live in Kabul.

My name is Brigid
and I live in Dublin.

My name is Abby
and, yes, I live in Boston.

The ear of compassion hears the voice of the other
no matter how far away the voice is.

The ear of compassion hears the voice of the other
no matter which side of the line it calls from.

The ear of compassion hears the voice of the other
no matter how quiet it is.

Why do we run from the voice of the other?
It is our own voice.