They killed a two year-old girl in the West Bank on Saturday.

Laila al-Khatib was shot in the head by Israeli forces in Jenin, because I guess they needed one more dead Palestinian kid.

One more dead Palestinian kid to add to the mountain.

One more small Palestinian face raining down upon us in our nightmares like meteors on the dinosaurs in the prequel to this apocalypse.

One more screaming, blood-spattered mother.

One more grandfather with boulders for feet carrying the tiny shrouded form of someone who should have buried him.

It’s one more dead Palestinian kid.

One more snowflake in the blizzard.

And yet here I sit, mouth agape,

a mortally wounded polar bear in my chest

and a cry of despair turning into a ghost and leaving me silent and slack-jawed like an imbecile.

I want to crawl into my childhood crib and fall asleep forever.

I want to turn into a crystal punch bowl and fall and shatter on a marble floor.

The air is full of flapping, and there’s seaweed in my hair.

There’s an angel with a mushroom cloud head in my doorway.

They killed a two year-old girl in the West Bank on Saturday, because I guess they needed another one.

I write her name on some paper and send it off into the wind,

and stride back into the suburban ghost town

with my body on fire.

Reading by Tim Foley.