Weekly Ritual Plea
to stand in a sea of safe bodies
who’ve eaten breakfast, who look for parking
or a sale on winter jackets;
each Sunday we gather, shoulders touching
voices tilted to God, to the East or the fathoms
of sky. does it listen to our
voices?
the same sky in Gaza
rains white phosphorous on
unanesthetized bodies,
empties taxes like Hiroshimas
on men in threadbare t shirts
shielding their children among blasted
concrete
the flash of a drone. snow comes,
we shout freedom up glaring buildings
to God and a gathering dark. We jeer,
we reason - is that drone
listening?
a blizzard
of warnings: “your home is not safe.
leave everything and walk south.”
the same southern sky that watches
children of empire turn infants
to a pile of cooling flesh in the road,
their mothers shaking at gunpoint
walking
At sundown keffiyehs are placed
on the road and hundreds bow
themselves to the East, to Allah
to kneel and plead for air.
Every Sunday I go
with tens of thousands
to pray for peace.
Almost everyone listens.
Liam Walke
