Collateral Damage

We’re the collateral

generation. Don’t mind the dead.

They have a habit

of getting in the way.

Then they cry that they’ve

been killed when they’ve

merely been deplanted.

Defaced.

The facelessness

of numbers. The fire

from our friendly—

waving to those below.

If they were

genocided,

flags would fall in East

Jerusalem. Or Mecca.

All would understand

it’s the terrorists

we’re after. Next time

stay out of the

line—the aid tents

of relief. The clinic

for starveling

babes & shrivelled

breasts—

hiding a Hamas

beneath the linen,

just waiting to kill us

all. You failed to do

enough

to dissuade his vow.

Hijabs are all the same.

Feeding shawarma

to his dogs.

So stand aside, you

savage mother-

fuckers. When he’s gone,

then so are we.

Let’s take

an oath of blood. Burn

our wrists with wax.

Swear a pinky

swear on bended knees.

To your God or to ours.

Only the lost claim

He’s the same.

You’re not among

the lost, are you? Calling

for your father

in the chaff? Or maybe

it’s the kitten

with a bomb strapped

to her tail, ready to

meet the virgins of

Allah

we’ve heard you wail.

Andreas Gripp

July 21, 2025

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