I, the terrorist,
watched the bread break off
my brother’s bleeding teeth,
wondering,
had he tasted blood-flavored bread before?...
I, the terrorist held my breath,
as the bricks from my kitchen ceiling
hit my forehead…
I could still stand…
I, the terrorist,
took the rut-filled road to get water
for my suckling infant.
I lost a few fingers
on the way,
to a precision sniper…
I, the terrorist,
dug-up some dirt water
with what was left of my stubs,
and tried
to nurse my wailing one,
as he lay in the arms
of the still-warm
body of his departed mother…
I, the terrorist, hated
that my newborn had to taste
blood-stained water;
I hated
the scarlet stuff
now forming bubbles on his lips…
Then, I the terrorist,
realized
that he,
like his mother,
like my brother,
and every other terrorist
who had sat for a meal
at the now fractured kitchen table
had suddenly
stopped feeding too…
Note: Inspired by a survivor of the Gaza massacre, sitting in what remained of his home with what looked like a fingerless bleeding hand...
