A photojournalist on NPR talks of Amal.
Not Amahl, of Amahl and the Night Visitors,
whose infirmity is healed under the star of the
Christ child, but Amal, a starving girl in
Northern Yemen. He describes his close-up shots of
her blank eyes, ribs, her dark cot. But he is not the Magi, the bearer of Christmas miracle.
His haunting photos point the world’s blind eyes to Famine in Yemen,
but the photos nor the world will get this child the specialized healthcare she needs to survive.
Amal will die in the week to come.
Spring issue of a poetry journal in my mailbox
the pages more like Winter to my fingertips.
I forgot I subscribed. Submitted.
We found…nothing overall that seemed quite right for us…
Such kind rejection.
I walk over soft yard grass under starless Winter sky,
enter the warmth of home wafting with
scent of long-haired dog, pull off my coat, set
poetry journal atop pile of twelve others, and
greet again my luxurious sorrow.