The Sky We Share

In my sky,
the sun is shining.
In your sky,
the sun is also shining.

From my sky, the worst that falls on us
is snow. Or, if we are unlucky, birdshit.
From your sky, luck has little to do with it.
Missiles scream until they don’t.

Bombs burst— not in mid-air as our pretty song goes—
but on grandfathers queuing for daily bread,
on hospitals, where babies are born
dead and their mothers beg to join them.

On my streets, there are no tanks.
There are no green army men waving Kalashnikovs.
On my streets, shops are open,
cafés are serving lattés and bagels.

In your cities, the mayors are shouting, pleading
for help. They ask us to shut the skies.
That we could do this— if we choose to—
makes me think we are God. I don’t want to be God.

Under your sky, a woman confronts the invader.
Fists in his face, she flings her seeds
so that sunflowers will grow
where his fallen body decomposes.

A field of shining yellow
against the bright blue heavens.
Against the bright blue sky
that we share, until we don’t.

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Ann Weil is a former special education teacher and Professor of Education at Eastern Michigan University. She earned her master’s degree and doctorate at the University of Michigan and now divides her time between Ann Arbor and Key West.