Sometimes when I see you
swaddled in sleep, I think

of shrouded children lowered
into pine crates, the trenches

gouged, the day darkening
under rising billows.

As you sleep the dead multiply,
their faces repeating,

like ceramic casts, your unlined
forehead, your proud nose.

I study the flutter
of your breath, your arms

folded safe by your sides,
your ear that could fit in a thimble.

Your one-month face is still
like glass as the children

of Qana are wiped of their dust.
As you sleep the missiles

scatter like seed-fall, flaming
on Fallujah, where the men dig

up flower beds to make room
for children who rest there,

side by side in their wrappings
like ears of corn.

Andy Young

Used with permission of the poet.