Systole
There are almost no words.
It is silent when I read
that the oldest of eighteen newborns –
five days – and the youngest –
born after the attack
on a maternity clinic in Kabul, before
the survivors were moved
– have lived. Your new hearts
have chambers that relax and fill
with blood, and then contract
and squeeze the blood out
to all of your sparkling arteries.
It is still quiet when I read
that no one has taken blame
or claimed responsibility, for the
soft target, a place where babies
enter the world. I will.
We all should. We have
some part in this crime
even if we did not
pull any trigger. We name
what we create, and we have
many names for this kind of event,
although you do not know
those words yet, do not
yet even have names yourselves.
Perhaps your names are now
18 of those names: trauma, disaster
massacre, carnage, casualty,
slaughter, ambush, assault,
tragedy, catastrophe, cataclysm,
misery, calamity, injury, anguish,
torment, damage, ruin.
To claim you, your mother’s
names were called out
to a crowd of men, crying.
It is raining here today. I stare
at the names of paint chips,
nail polish and lipstick,
flavored water, chewing gum,
vegetable seeds, flower varietals.
Let me rename everything
in the world for you.
© Katie Kalisz
Katie Kalisz
The Loch Raven Review 