War Sestina

You cannot understand this agony so you                                           
must not discuss it. Pain
spreads over the map, a broken cup.
My child, not yours, was taken
by terrorists, forced onto motorcycle.
My child — held in a tunnel.                                      

                        Our apartment stood over a tunnel.
                        Three kids under six, youngest nursing, you             
                        searched for food, never made it to motorcycle
                        before we were hit, pain
                        flies like shrapnel, children taken                           
                        to hospital. No water to drink in our cups.              

We recline at the table, drink from life’s cup,
recall ancestors hiding in tunnels,                                                       
recall first-born by Pharoah taken.                                          
This year, I think only of you.                                                
These thoughts—this pain                              
strapped to motorcycle.    
          
                        My boy never made it to motorcycle.            
                       Night’s explosion shattered his cup.
                        Buildings crack with pain,   
                        homes blown out above tunnels.                                                     
                        Everywhere a target. You,
                        my son, splintered and taken.                   

            After our children are taken,                           
             some by bomb, some by motorcycle,                                    
             all I can think of is you.
            You are my cup.
            Above or inside the tunnel
            my hands are stamped with your pain.                        

            These tunnels, humid with pain.                                
            Above and below, you, our children, are taken.             
            Shattered motorcycles, broken cups.   

.

Lao Rubert lives in Durham, North Carolina. Her poems have appeared in Adanna, Atlanta Review, Barzakh, Collateral, Mom Egg Review, New Verse News, Poetry in Plain Sight, Poetry East, Poets Without Borders (Anita McAndrews 2021 Poetry Contest), Topical Poetry and elsewhere.