After Hieronymus Bosch
The faces, the mouths
open, the hungry child eats
cookies made from clay,
eats dust as the pregnant woman
swallows what she craves,
and those kidnappers of sorts,
the Baptists from Idaho, who know
what they are doing,
evidently not enough to convict.
Wouldn’t you promise a child
a swimming pool if you could?
Wouldn’t you promise elsewhere
like I wanted to take my mother?
She died so small, a tremor,
a sparrow curled on her sheet.
And what about the dogs
my sister says, how many dogs
are wandering around Port au Prince,
how many dogs wandering New Orleans,
Fukushima, Baghdad, Bangladesh.
When will the dogs from Somalia,
from Syria, find bones to gnaw.
No one has mentioned the dogs.