For years it’s been in my head,
your bloody face, life misplaced,
in a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
Élodie, God’s children wed
in al-Quds. Is He dead, has He fled, been replaced?
For years it’s been in my head.
BBC, ABC, al Jazeera, Haaretz…
no story the same, not one has depicted
a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
Throat constricted, mind conflicted, eyes red
from the pounding bullets our ancestors’ war has inflicted:
for years it’s been in my head.
You were only four, too young to understand a soldier’s hatred.
I dropped the remote as the casualties were listed,
recited in a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
It’s 2pm, Élodie. I’m drinking. Two years ago this day you were dead.
Eyes wide for the cameras. For God, arms outstretched.
For years it’s been in my head
in a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.