Mike Maggio

On a Photograph* of a Woman Embracing a Child’s Body Wrapped in a White Shroud 
by John Bradley

If only we knew the child’s name, height, weight, the color of their eyes and hair.

If only we knew the child’s mother and father, had shared a meal, chatted over tea.

If only we knew if they were connected in any way to those who committed terror.

If only we knew who had slain the child, who had fired the missile, dropped the bomb.

If only we knew the exact place and time, could have watched live as it occurred.

If only we knew the pilot who was involved, knew their heart, their hands, their family.
  
If only we knew the immediate reason, strategic purpose, the lasting consequences.

If only we knew where the child’s body will be buried, who will be at the burial.

If only we knew who will visit the grave, what they will say over it.

If only we knew who will use this photograph, how it will be used, and why.

If only we could forget having seen this photo, knowing it exists, will always exist.

If only we could say we had nothing to do with it, nothing to do with any of it.

If only we knew the immediate reason, strategic purpose, the lasting consequences.

If only we knew the right words to say, how to say them, and to whom.

If only we didn’t know the name of the five-year-old girl, the name of her aunt.

If only we could keep saying, If only.



*The photograph, taken by Mohammed Salem, shows Inas Abu Maamar holding the body of her five-year-old niece Saly.

Copyright 2023 by John Bradley

John Bradley is the editor of And Blue Will Rise Over Yellow: An International Poetry Anthology for Ukraine (Kallisto Gaia Press).  His most recent book is Dear Morpheus, The Glue That Is You (Sos Madres Press).  He is currently a poetry editor for Cider Press Review.

New York Times, Sunday November, 12, 2023
by Suzann Heron

A photo of a young child, crying in 
a rubbled, dusty street

Crying over her dead parent’s body 
wrapped in a colorful tapestry 

Four other children, eyes averted, are engaged in conversation nearby 

I enlarge the photo on my iPhone to get close to the child’s grimaced face

To see, closer, 
the small hand and fingernails

One hand on the tapestry, the other hand 
cradling the child’s head 

I see the child’s mouth open, in what looks like a wail.

Her teeth, white, and small, pink gums, perhaps a five-year-old. 

The child’s eyes are closed. I enlarge 
the photo again to get as close as I can, to

her soft curly black hair,  to be as close as I can to her cry 

to be as close as I can 
to her 

Copyright 2023 by by Suzann Heron

SP Heron spends her time between Western Ma. and Provincetown Ma.   SP Heron works as a psychotherapist and clinic director with time spent writing poetry,  exploring belonging and place on this beautiful and fragile earth.   

The End
by Grace Beeler

Two cats
One black, sleek but fat
One gray, a ragged stray
Needle claws
Unsewing 
A yowling ball

On the table, tacos
Good news
-My aunt got out 
She’s in Egypt
Thank god
But what about the family? 
What about the rest? 

Grapefruit trees 
In neat rows
-Were picking to help 
The workers
We’re picking to 
Avoid thinking about 
The Situation

Each smooth yellow fruit 
The size 
And weight 
Of an un-incubated
Premie’s head

You toss them into the bucket
The soft fruit 
Makes an awful thunk
As it hits the plastic wall

How can you pick grapefruit? 
Thunk
How can you not pick grapefruit? 
Thunk
What could possibly be wrong with
Picking grapefruit?
Thunk
What could be wrong with
Bringing the kids outside
For some fresh air? 
Thunk
With feeding people? 
Thunk
Anyone with half a heart would do it
Thunk 
Thunk
What could possibly be wrong with 
Thunk
A six year old
Thunk 
Stretched out on the hospital floor
Thunk
Two limbs amputated
Thunk
No anesthesia
Thunk
No antiseptic
Thunk
No electricity
Thunk
No hope
Thunk
No bittersweet sticky juice
Thunk
No hope
Thunk
No hope

No hope

Under the table 
The cats claw and
Snarl
Fangs locked on each other’s throats
Legs jackhammering guts 

Are you going to put your hand in there 
To stop them?

And then?

What then? 

What end? 

And when?

Copyright 2023 by Grace Beeler

Poet and Filmmaker Grace Beeler is the author of the chapbook A Lineage of Light,  and co-editor of the anthology Before We Have Nowhere to Stand – Palestine/Israel: Poet Respond to the Struggle. Her poetry has appeared in Mothering Magazine, New Verse News, Poetica and Blueline among others. Her films include The Box, What Comes Out Goes to the Government, The Chance to Live, The Bite, and Leaving. Her new spoken word film Salt has screened at eleven festivals internationally and will be at the Monologues International Film Festival December 16th – 19. Grace is the director of the NGO After the Rain, which houses the Appropriate Sanitation Institute and the Triangle Refugee Film Project. She also teaches English as a Second Language at Durham Tech Community College in Durham, NC.