Day 3: Turning Away

Syria, your hollowed, hallowed babies
I look away from your babies
and sand sculpted men against soft women flowing
through lines in the sand erasing and erasing and flowing
I turn away from the tv of babies
I have to. I have a grandson who must keep breathing.
Your everything to lose so unlike and like my everything
you have grandsons you're afraid to lose, too.
Not right now. I have no time for your babies. There's milk that's old and green oranges soaked in mold that I must purge from the bowl.
Syria, forgive us our- is there a phone that's ringing or a mantra in need of singing?
Mother India, pray for Syria. Sister Geneva, you who stand between
inhumane and unfathomably inhumane, don't let hollowed become your name.
Deliver us from-
eyes as dark as my grandson's. Can we escape to the desert?
Eat poolside under a protective umbrella, our only fear a sunburned shoulder, and that is fear enough.