The Wrong Rain: An anti-war poem by Jennifer Vishagan

I feel a longing, to feel 

the hug-worthy summer again.

Sleeping under a blanket of smoky fog 

that vows to weigh worse

as the winter sways in slow and ruthless.

I have been thinking of grief, of loss,

of lives that lived 

like a merry-go-round only half a minute ago

now being carried half-alive, most not

by scurrying adults. The adults themselves 

physically hurt.

I so wish I were blind at times

as my eyes seem to see,

every place they look — all that I t shouldn’t 

have to be seeing, they see

all that didn’t have to be happening.

A thousand miles away from where I am,

a mother holds tight (like many more)

and cries over her child wrapped 

in cold, white sheets. 

Some bodies intact. Some an unbelievable bundle.

Her child

she would have otherwise put to sleep 

in a warm bed, having kissed goodnight. 

The battle reminds me 

of a moment that likely happened

centuries ago. And it came to be written of how 

from the heavens He called out aloud 

— after one brother had slayed another —

“What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood

crieth unto me from the ground”

Now who is akin to Cain here? Who is akin to Abel?

While we wait with an impatient patience

for every side to justify their deeds

time goes by, not knowing how to stop

the raining rain.

The wrong rain children can’t play in. I hear, 

they need to be alive first in order to play.

And a little past every midnight, comes to life

a wailing amidst all these voices in my head.

A wailing that I know, 

is not going to die out any soon. 

An agonizing wail.

And who knew 

agony can be this agile.

And who knew 

pity can feel so bitter.

Who knew we are a world free of sinners

so, we throw them stones at each other. 

The rest of us are just watching us throw 

mighty stones at each other.

I feel a longing, to find and hold what’s left 

of my family lying deep under the debris of war, I hear

many voices say.

Why, oh why does anyone war?