COLLATERAL DAMAGE

Young mother, young father,
reach down and hold
your daughter's hand,
your son's little hand,
reach down and feel
the tiny sweet grip
of collateral damage.

My brother,
hold her close.
Kiss your woman.
Kiss her deeply.
Hold her close and feel
the trembling body
of collateral damage.

O my son,
my dear warrior son,
baby child I held in my arms,
baby hush, don't cry,
scattered all around you
the unspeakable pieces
of collateral damage.

Sons and daughters,
look on the face of the woman
who bore you through pain,
who cried with you, laughed with you,
the spirit who nourished your spirit,
and trace in her loving lines the scars
of collateral damage.

You survivors,
husbands and wives
of fate's full measure heroes,
in the smoke and ash
and the stench of burning steel
you inhale the shattered DNA
of collateral damage.

And you,
whose words speak precisionless bombs,
whose breath reeks of depleted uranium,
whose headlight deer stare terrifies me more,
whose crude oily view of the world would befoul the beaches of decency -
you, Bush, now that you have done 
this terrible thing, look long and long 
into the named or nameless faces 
you call collateral damage.



© 2003 by Richard W. Todd

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