This day of all days reserved for dead ancestors,
for gravestones overturned by the power
of love and memory,
for old souls to walk among us
but there is no room for los muertos to roam
in Gaza or Israel, that desecrated land
where newly dead go unburied.
The rocket's red glare is no cause
for a star-spangled anthem. Rockets yes,
by the thousands, forth and back, in lethal formation,
rockets of senseless rage against rage
sowing wrath for generations to come.
Los muertos cannot walk
with the stench of limbs in the rubble.
Outside my window in the gathering dark
a ferocity of wind shifts directions,
made visible in the dervish of leaves
like a murmuration of starlings bringing
bulletins from this dance of death.
Let rockets cease for human's sake.
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