On tv we saw a woman living
with her kids in a tin slum.
She showed the camera man
an open stove, a hairbrush
on a box that was her bedside table.
Along one wall, dirty water trickled
around bullet holes, ticking,
limned by the reporter’s voice-over.
How we like to focus on what’s close up.
We don’t even know where the bullets go—
through cities and forests, clean
into the open air.
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A stunning piece, beautifully read. Thanks.
Very salutary, the thinking that your verse inspires.
Love what happens here and how this poem brings the reader (well, this reader for sure : )) there…congrats, Sarah.