It is with heavy heart on this day -- mere hours
after the girls were taken across the border
and, elsewhere, halfway around, deep plates buckled
along the ring of fire, bringing the melting wave –
I’m going, too. Where doesn’t matter, why or how.
The bells ringing, the sirens, the mothers wailing ...
It is the time.
In the Saharan dunes, all the sand is running down
in what started as an infinitesimal shift,
grain by grain, is now a liquid-fast cascade,
a dry river collapsing and spreading a mirage blanket,
stopping miles before the rising, roiling ocean,
only a suggestion of a way out,
an invitation to nowhere.
Black faces under shroud.
In my imagination, the girls are walking the high spine
of the one snow-capped mountain left standing,
through a meadow shimmering with summer grass and wild-flowers.
Somewhere, it is that season.
That was the creation myth sold to us,
how God’s plan will account for the pain, will make sense
of the senseless, shine light on the alpine path.
Instead, the blinding light exposes every last, brutal detail
but illuminates nothing. It is blasting away my retinas,
twin bombs dropped through the clouds in the Pacific,
white beyond any color, dead, dead center.
Is a former political and sports columnist who worked great cities like Albany NY, Seattle, Baltimore and Harrisburg PA. She lives New York.