2,000 Nigerians slaughtered,
a whole village emptied.
You sit at a table for 12
for your son’s 37th birthday
along with his wife, her hand
caressing her pregnant belly.

Between them,
bubbling water through his straw,
their small boy, a pocket mirror of your son.
Syrian men, heads down, arms outstretched,
hands on each other’s shoulders, marched
to their death. You chew your fajita.

Children shot down in a Pakistani school
as they were shot down at their desks in Connecticut.
You dip your chip into your guacamole,
smell the cilantro and lime as you draw it toward your lips.

No more birthdays for the 26-year-old Jordanian pilot,
caged, doused with oil, set on fire, alive.
You spoon up your corn soup.

Do as your Russian grandma advised.
“Eat, eat,” she urged,
escape money sewn into the hem of her dress.