May It Be Softly

Vincent Hostak

November 12, 2023

“…and if they die? May it be softly.”

- a civilian to a journalist reporting on the Israeli-Gaza border in October 2023

I heard you say: “I refuse to take sides.”

Perhaps you meant: your heart is with all who suffer.

Burn blisters cling to each side of a wall,

Prayers echo back to appellants,

while all means of refuge are closed.

Tell me:

Which is the safest room in which to hide in a burning house?

Peace should be deafening, we have thousands

of words to describe it, in our hundreds of tongues.

They hold still in our mouths, even in grief.

As the days dim to dusk

the heart-stopping thunder returns.

Tell me:

Why shouldn’t we bellow, what is the pain which injures us more?

I heard you say: “It can never be solved,”

perhaps you meant: “what I say will be twisted

by those holding quarter in coveys of hate

whom I’ll only enrage.”

“…and if they die? May it be softly.”

Tell me:

Shouldn’t care be furnished to every precious word and hour?

Vincent Hostak is a writer and media producer from Texas now living near the Front Range of Colorado south of Denver. His recently published poems are found in the journals Sonder Midwest and the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas and as a contributor to the TPA. He writes & produces the podcast: Crossings-the Refugee Experience in America.