Strange accents have come into my home.
They have become beautiful and familiar.

Doe-eyed little girls
have been reunited with grieving parents before my eyes
in camps
where homeless people live.

Grey-haired men wearing suits and important titles
throw out words over the airways while

I have become educated 
in the making and dispensing of bombs

Bridges have been a frequent target.

I have earned a Ph.D. in the matter of
vicarious grief and daily confusion.

These lands with ancient names from my history books --
Macedonia, Cyprus, Albania, the Slavic world
Cities with lyrical names..Sarajevo...

They haunt my days
And the violence that visits them now
finds its way into my dreams.

When did I become the grieving parent?
The lost child?
Maybe it happened
when my tears got mixed up with theirs one night
after dinner.


TLH
April 1999