War Cry

How many hours have I sat,
trying not to gasp, stifling the churn
in my stomach as I read,
addicted, afraid to stop lest the horror
I learn of should renew itself
the next time I turn on the screen.
But I must stop, if only to make dinner,
or feed my friends cat,
or pray.
My fear is realized every time I return,
no flashing images or posed sound bytes.
They would be too much to bear.
Only words, so many that I
donҒt believe they will stop,
in my head, on the screen,
scrolling, reeling, fighting, crying,
and making space for stills
which speak more words,
that should be kept hidden from children,
except that they are of children.
My want to protect them lost
in the strangled silence of a broken baby
in the arms of her father
who cant quite understand.
When I look away, I think of the
photographer and what thoughts escaped,
if he let out a little cry
as his hands moved ceaselessly,
careful not to falter or lose balance,
taking comfort in the rhythm of habit
while all around him, familiarity
lay shattered in the ruins of liberation