They rush, disturbed, alarmed,
they panic in fits,
slobbering the dancing spittle
of anxious fears and trembling flights
of ferocious fancy we all know will not occur.
They hear our objections,
they wait, regather to whisper,
use the conspiratorial finger, the pointed
line about the evil that will follow
if we do not step in line, this time,
this man is different,
for what will follow is our End, they say.
Blue-lipped fears, goose-stepping black boots
on the faces of our children, they cry!
you cannot hope for better: this is what we have.
Between the madness curled at the edges of their eyes
and the passionated fears they cling to
I see no difference:
the phosphorous burns the same in Aleppo as in Gaza,
the squeezed salaries holding girls to chairs
where urine drips to meet quotas
on cold, hard floors, the same,
the smoky waters, flaming at times near our homes,
the places of our mothers torn, stripped and polluted,
our fathers ways destroyed, all
the millions reaching out, running, screaming for help
where our bombs fall, guided by hands ordered by
either of the ones we pick,
the hidden faces of the girls taken, sold, and selling-
the dealers in death, makers of black billions on
the radiated waters, the dying fish
the warmer seas, the melting caps
the greater storms, the weaker systems
all the same,
no matter who wins.
Both windows open
both hearts closed.
The waters of the rivers flow
until you flood new fields to grow