If I were Gazan
I would pray for sleep
sweet unconsciousness
for dreamless sleep
unhaunted by grey ash or orange fire or crimson blood.

If I were Gazan
I would cleave to memory
consoling souvenir
sunlight dancing on my wife’s face
dappling the beguiling smile now forever erased.

If I were Gazan
I would scream at God
dumbfounded rage
badgering the pitiless One
unmoved unmoving while his children are returned to dust.

If I were Gazan
I would rue my grandchildren
cruel blessing
their unbearable tomorrows
untempered by any yesterdays in which to find fleeting succor.

If I were Gazan
I would pray to never sleep
desperate vigilance
my only remaining duty
to help them survive — to breath, to touch, to be touched — one more day.

If I were Gazan —
but I am not Gazan and you are
unthinkable injustice
that the same sun and the same God
shine warm and bright on me and burn you with searing flame.