Boston, Dear

Boston dear, Sing me your songs, Your slow drums, your seasoned crab delicacy, Your shrimp and caviar and lobster platters, Seafood still wet crawling like zombies through sand, They will not escape with their lives: The economy depends on them. Sing me like your children sing themselves to sleep, Like they sing themselves as they run too far across the playground, Like they run too slowly from the fires now raping your city, Like they sing now, chanting too mournfully for the dead, For the 8 year-old, for the blood spatters, for the children spelling death for the first time. Who knew that death could scream in so many different languages? Sing me like the ash that fills the intake of every breath, Like the bombs that fall too harshly in Kuwait, And the air attacks that ruin a wedding. Sing me like that, but don't use words or harmonies. Don't use your voice, Just your breath. Only your breath. Sing me like that, Like those still lying trapped in debris, Like the Chilean Miners still breathing ash from their 69 day stay underground, Like the women raped in wars still having nightmares, Like the children still running from Sudan, Sing me like that: Just use your breath. Just your breath. Sing me like the woman still cleaning the concrete, Like the doctor amputating legs, Like the baby crying: arms outstretched for a mother that will never come back, Sing me with tears. Sing me like that slow mournful cry, guttural and visceral, Sing me like that, like the newspaper banners proclaiming: Come and see the blood in the streets. Sing me your songs, Iraq, Kuwait, Sudan, Iran, India, China, North Korea, Japan and Israel. Sing me in all of your languages, in all of your ways, Sing me like the blood that runs too much, Like the drums that beat too loudly, Like the women preparing the funerals, Sing me like that. Boston dear, sing me your songs, Your children's chants, Your marathon runners times still wet with blood, Who knew they wouldn't escape with their lives? Others depend on them.