Swung like a bat
like that and
that, swung by
their feet they
swing through
air and smash
against the tall
innocent tree,
the white bark
growing this
dark patch.
Simple sycamore
in Cambodia
against which
the infants
were dashed
in 1973
knocking all
breath out
from the slow
green body
of the world.
Simple tree
against which
this continued
all morning
beside the river
just going
as the mothers
clutched nothing
and held back
not one word
not one sound
heading out from
the furthermost
reach of who
they were —
also murdered
in a moment
coming on
all such sounds
beside the river
drowning out
the other noises
the soldiers made
against which
tonight the tree
and the river
still together
endure somehow
without grief
without memory
of that morning,
or any morning
among our kind.