In Britain, a man is currently pleading manslaughter after strangling a woman he alleges screamed after he kissed her. This is a tragic crime. In Libya, the streets are gleeful with the death of a man, pulled, terrified and pleading, from a storm drain. Once a powerful tyrant, he was now weak, humbled. So they shot him in the head, pulled his body about, and cheered and jeered. Obama, and Cameron, have claimed this as a great day for that nation. Actually, it is a barbaric day. A tragedy. Each human death is terrible. Each life should be guarded, and nurtured. No one is too wicked to deserve a fair trial, or humane treatment. We deride the law in Iran that calls for cruel punishments that fit the crime, and yet applaud mob justice when it suits our ends. As in Iraq, this assassination has silenced an inconvenient maverick, who dared to challenge the hegemony of the oil-starved nations of the West. Is it good he is no longer in power? Yes. Is it wrong that he was taken dead, not alive? Also Yes.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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