A happening,
a moment in time,
some fifty years ago.
I remember
the pull on my shirt,
a plaintive voice,
a cry for help,
the revulsion
for Iraqi girl,
age close to seven,
dress torn,
sandals broken,
cupped hands;
no nose, no cheek,
no right eye.
Instead
a gap, a void,
a festering hole.
Horror struck,
I search,
I find a coin,
a silver one,
to give, to push
into her hand.
Girl with only half a face,
please go away,
please leave my view,
seeing you
I ache, I pain
I hurt, for
you do offend.
She had run,
had scurried off,
was quickly gone.
Now when I close my eyes……
Bob Blackwell
