Beverly Monestier

DÉJÀ VU OF THE BLIND WITNESS

Then,
we saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing
of camps on the edge of town,
the fates of missing neighbors
whose children screamed behind closed doors,
refused to betray their brothers
in crawl-spaces beneath floors, behind walls.
We turned away
from trains packed with dehydrated families
held upright only by the throng,
as if the truth might jump the tracks
and suffocate us.
We did not see living skeletons shoveling coal,
lights from the furnaces melting bone.

Today,
we see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing
of pyramids of naked prisoners trimmed in hoods,
flag-draped coffins forbidden to be photographed,
urine-soaked holy books, our water breaking
as we give birth to new generations
of enemies.
We turn away from remnants of children
lured to military camps with candy,
permanent bases occupying,
the wasteland left behind.
We do not see the unarmed heart sink to roadside dust,
covered up by pretense while the desert works at burial.