MOTHER AND CHILD

Forgive the sun for shining that day,

light glinting off the mother’s nutmeg skin,

finding beauty in the most improbable places.

Forgive the child, dead in her arms,

for running into the path of a bullet

as if running after the tail of a kite.

Forgive the mother, sending him to the shop

for scallion and thyme, pressing coins

into his palm, promising sweets on return.

Forgive the ground for absorbing his blood,

for muffling footfalls of the one

who fired the gun and fled.

Forgive the mothers mouth, the wail

lodged in her throat, the groveling eyes

asking too late for someone to intervene.

Forgive the silence of the onlookers,

crowding to see. Forgive even History,

indifferent to grief.