Three Small Bodies in Gaza

Note – the following poem was submitted to World Can’t Wait comments, by Rick the poet

Three small bodies in Gaza.
Lined on linen in a row.
Like triplets,
all the same.

No blood distracts from their toddler trance
No grimace of death pain.
I cannot but stare at the innocence.
Missing limbs are but there, still attached.

Someone points and the pale sleep speaks.
How neatly is this death?
See the circle-symmetry of centered targets,
slow moving.
Cleansed by the echo of cleansing shots.
Exit wounds all the size of an infant's fist.
Each one, small-chest center.
Already mother-cleansed
and lifetime-wept.

The crowd stirs in uniform misery.
A dance in the greed of hell.
Lonely witness to
the mercy of an American rifle
in the hands of an Israeli sniper
making room for his sister’s house.