By Tess Thompson

In his government-approved crib,
my son sleeps. A mobile spins,
plays soft music. Shelves hold books,
stuffed animals, outgrown clothes.

(Far away, a militia forces
village children into a hut.
Parents hear screams. Later
they find heads in a burlap bag.)

Waiting for my son to wake, I cry for them.
How can I love him while others suffer?

(And the awful relief:
My son is not one of them.
My son is safe.)

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