Mr. President, a word please

Mr. President, a word please

I look down from the top of a thousand Syrian apartments,

through windows of glass and seared light, see the
uniforms, shouting, pointing, waving their beards which

touch the ground like a fading plume of smoke. I see the flames

licking the salt of a thousand desert homes, emerging

tanks and machinations of war, blown apart by

the perfect American missile, see
uniforms shot with tongues hanging dryly in

the summer heat, and women’s wails fill the

days and the nights, no rest for any hour of any place,

children running and screaming away, emerging

from the flames, but one, who walks,

his arm already covered in a perfect swan of fire, his

eyes erased, his hands held open to the sky, he

stumbles forward, opens his mouth and

releases his failing breath, his lungs

on fire, his tongue on fire, his

heart on fire, his skin

on fire, he falls.

I see the image of this day etched on the minds of countless youths,

of a different color and a different race, see its memory curling around them

like a deadly snake, see their eyes look back on their homes turned to salt and

their brothers, too, see forty years from now, when they will hold a gun to
their heads and pull the trigger while watching this image they have seen
in their dreams, in my dreams,
across a thousand Syrian apartments,
across a thousand days and nights.

I see America, sleeping peacefully, its war done in a single night. I see Washington, its perfect sun rising, a crisp day in a soft winter. I see New York, waking up and reading its newspapers and turning to its cappuccinos for comfort.  I see Atlanta, once too engulfed in flames, complaining of its own sweat by noon. I see Baltimore, its police scrambling after another week of dead teenagers, while its penthouses shine like diamonds in the sky.

This, I say, this is power!

But within me, a soft whisper rises, “Words, too, are power.”