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Dream Away, Bomb Baby

and don’t even think about

the rubble around your crib,

the ceiling that crushed

your mother and the walls

blown out with a boom—

that should have awakened

you, like the chalky

white of the living dead

who never saw it coming,


that so many in Ukraine

have been forced to do without—

a coffin not a crib

but that was last week’s poem

you see, I meant to say Gaza

all along


but “anti-Semite”

keeps my ink from running

out, like dancers at a kibbutz

in Re’im, who believed that

music unites us all

in spite of war, shot in a

corner barrel by the

sons of some Allah,


to be avenged by

Yahweh’s children,

this God unsure

of His sacred

designation,


and whether or not

each slumbering babe

is worthy of gentle

sleep, the kind in which

you crawl and laugh

in lofty, floral grasses,


feel their tickle

and caress,


hear the whistle

of the breeze

without the warning

of what’s to hit you.





Andreas Gripp

October 22, 2023


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