Thousands of feet

Below you

There is a small

Boy

Running from

Your bombs.

If he were

To show up

At your mother's

House

On a green

Sea island

Off the coast

Of Georgia

He'd be invited in

For dinner.

Now, driven,

You have shattered

His bones.

He lies steaming

In the desert

In fifty or sixty

Or maybe one hundred

Oily, slimy

Bits.

By Alice Walker

2003