Because I cannot carry your dead child,
I sweep the deck of my friend
and fling the dry pine needles
to the messenger breeze, and the strike
of my broom down the steps to the sea
is the shovel for digging the grave
and the birdsong is the keening
of your family and clinging companions
Instead of joining you to claw the rubble
in search of your buried mother,
I will bring bread to my neighbour
who will serve it to her children,
and I chant your name in rhythm
to the shouts and earth movers
with the warm loaf in my hand
and the autumn air gripping my chest
I will serve tea to this welcome company
and offer a fragrant, poignant
impotent wish for peace,
an as-salaam aleikum with each
touch of the cup to silent lips,
while you grip your phone for news
and prepare to sleep on dark roads,
upon carpets that once had homes
Nothing in me can help you know
if your daughter is alive or dead,
or which of those is worse,
so I will whisper b’shalom b’shalom
with each step up this mountain
from where my strength comes
and where my cries are left
and where the eagles loft and lift
You cannot bear witness to my sorrow
for those I love whom I do not know
so I will ring the Japanese garden bell
to reach all those unjustly taken away
I will listen to its resounding song
which ears hear for ten slow breaths
but which trees hear forever
and I pledge to each of you who suffers now
a place in its vibrating prayer
Amir Peter O’Loughlin
Mayne Island, B.C. October 14, 2023
