There is a question being asked by my skin, my solar plexus, my lungs, my bones. I hear it in the dead bodies the weeping fathers and mothers the orphaned children their limbs gone to heaven before them the ragged, bloody flesh hanging from fences ripped and dangling from grieving arms pressed into plastic bags in the absence of graves the jutting hip bones and spines of starving the newborns cold and still in hospitals bombed down around their crowded beds the toddlers screaming running barefoot and alone the phosphorous flares inside tents with burning limbs flailing the men splayed naked on naked prison floors, a crowd of soldiers blocks our view of rapes with steel poles and dogs the dismissals and dead eyes the disingenuous lies the supercilious sneers of murderers stalking the halls of power The handsome, mocking boys in rooms where they don’t belong dancing on the graves of lives who will never leave them be, who will never truly die These are the questions being asked day and night by my skin, my solar plexus, my lungs, my bones Do all of you live here now? How deep? How long?
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