What were your parents thinking of
when they brought you, gentle, into this world?
More than enough of us, heavens above,
and the next man reciting his suicide video
while we coo.
The unlucky, gunned down here and there,
a future blown up at a rock concert,
play it down, don’t let them change the score;
easy to say, we’re not on a Paris street
clearing up blood.
Open your eyes, look into the green,
here’s the garden maman has grown
still straggled with aubergines
(this November of unseasonal things)
and stray tomatoes;
the lullaby sky over the mountains
is time bomb blue,
while we try to make sense
as you sleep through it all,
hushing me, warm in my arms.