Unit 017: Make it stop.

The car bomb that destroyed lives,
two blocks from the street where I was born,
had the good manners to be five years early,
the last explosion this side of a border
                                    sixty miles away.
The odd bomb scare relieving us of school, like snow days,
respectfully confining itself
                                    to the whispers of adults.

The rites of learning:
Mother’s tender hands enclosing mine
in the glorious triumph of tying my first shoelace.

And the flames, the bloody carnage,
the whataboutery of politicians,
the backdrop of every young friend’s visit
politely flickering away
inside the television box.

I put the war inside a box.

I need no instant news alert
to take me from my moment with the dog.
I have worked hard to dial down the world,
to block out the noise and the pain.

It snags my eye buying a carton of milk:
“Hundreds of Ukrainians with disabilities vanished into Russia”

I scroll the socials, another headline invades:
“Panicked Gaza hospital staff evacuate patients after missile strike”
A girl who did not live to lace her own shoe.

Despite all of my defences,
The war will not stay in its box.