and not on a foreign field
and not with a rifle strapped to her back,
and not with a large defense of tanks
rumbling and rolling behind her.
She died without talk of intelligent bombs
and strategic targets
The target was simply her face, her back
her pregnant belly.
that was once composed like music
in her mother’s body and sung
in the anthem of birth.
that had lived its own dear wildness,
had been loved and not loved,
had danced and not danced.
that had stumbled up
from a beginning
and had learned to walk
and had learned to read.
and had learned to sing.
not far from where you live;
Just there, next door where the tall light
falls across the pavement.
where you’ve often heard shouting,
Another woman died today.
her mother used to kiss;
the same child you dreamed
beside in school.
The same baby her parents
walked in the night with
and listened and listened and listened
For her cries even while they slept.
with this woman’s only life.