Women in Black

As they circle the sun, they imagine shrieks

rising above mortar smoke, so they stand

near the junction, women in black staring

into space like soldiers at parade rest.

Their silent vigil rebukes the loud procession.

Their quiet extends like an open hand,

but in their dreams they hear cries ascending

from rubble piles, see rifled mercenaries

riding on pickup beds, and witness red laser

dots jiggling on children’s breasts. They envision

Tomahawk missiles lancing the sea’s surface,

severed heads heaped in a burn barrel,

and flak-streaked skies. Wordless, these impassive

observers refuse to salute as the synchronized

color guard passes. They do not hear the drum-roll,

or lift their eyes to countenance the thunder

of Blue Angels. Against heat and showered in confetti

fluttering from balconies, they absorb the parade’s end.