My seven-year-old knows a thing about the war.

He knows the IDF is taking children from their mothers.

 

He’s seen a sign at the tree lighting last week

of toddlers wrapped in Kafan, their names

 

in thick red ink. His mother told him they were sleeping

but he knew that they were dead. He knows this war involves

 

a good side and a bad, because I told him the war involves

a good side and a bad. I have never witnessed bloodshed quite like this,

 

and so around the house and in the car and on our walks to school

with the cold air rising visibly from our lips, I carry the weight

 

of the realization that evolution may never incite empathy.

And while I know that much of my faith has stemmed

 

from the belief that over time humanity becomes more humane,

I don’t know how much my love of living has depended on it.

 

We all know the poem about the shit house and the realtor

who says you could make this place beautiful, and I am afraid I have

 

drawn too much attention to that one crack in the cellar

where the little bit of light gets in. That my son will not have that

 

ceiling to shatter, and that he won’t be shocked when it happens again.

I think about all the things I wanted to be when I was Sol’s age, now.

 

I wanted to make decisions. I’d already known what I wanted

them to be. Don’t keep your love from anyone, namely.

 

Maybe I wrote this poem because I wanted a different answer.

I needed to see if I could manage any other conclusion than that I’ve failed.

 

But all I’ve managed is this: the mother knows, so the boy knows.

Without her saying it, he’s dealt only ambiguous pain.

 

He will have no sense of what to call it, and so one day might decide,

well then why don’t we just call it war?