Bi Scott - Language and Diplomacy

Poetry

Poetry

Not till you died did I understand that

the veiled and breast-beating
mothers on TV, raven
wings flapping heavenward,
who caw to camera while
at their feet their children,
heels pressed up against the screen
bodies tight packed between
news items, delay
our dinner – ululating
alienness, distasteful timing,
ah, here comes the weather at last –
weren’t crying for the corpses we could see
but for the lives we couldn’t

and wouldn’t, though not because of the forecast.