IN (APPARENT) SOLIDARITY WITH AFGHANS

I fiddle with my fingers as the reporter blares from the telly,

rejigger books on my shelves, arrange them by color, by cover type,

crack some jokes over dinner while silently trying to ignore

the sea of malaise threatening to bury me.

A whiz of shelled terrain and bombed cities stagnate in my head,

like an obstinate sclera tattoo on my mind’s eye,

mosques in shambles, crumbling domes and minarets,

women stabbed, assaulted, abused,

discarded like rag dolls and left to rot in the street

after thorough misuse,

vast expanses of land dotted with death and desolation;

an amputee trying to elude capture,

lost eyes of kids staring into a desolate nebulous sky,

sons, daughters deprived of their parents,

widowed wives and bereaving relatives,

and we—

we click small hearts on posts grieving their plight,

share, post, and tweet in apparent solidarity,

type out tirades and rants in an outpouring of support,

all under the pretext of raising awareness not realizing

that people are fully aware but choose not to see;

choose not to act.

me writing this poem is no different,

I’m not hoping for this piece to be a game-changer

nor for it to offer salvation for people in harm’s way,

but maybe the next time I see Afghans flinging onto

wings and tails of airplanes, clambering and scrambling for a seat,

floundering and flailing for means of escape

I will not feel entirely impotent,

not again.