Ruins of Beit Lahia, in the Gaza Strip, destroyed by Israeli bombardments
By Rod Whitworth
I can’t find the code to unlock this
slippery image of hot dust,
to find whether it’s dream or memory
and, if it’s memory, whether mine
or someone else’s, recounted
or broadcast, maybe on television,
people walking, some wailing,
some waving their arms, some
carrying a body wrapped in white,
perhaps plastic. Dust catches my throat
or it may be emotion. In and out
of the frame, as the hand holding
the phone dithers, a grinning soldier.
