Facing the Document
Facing me, the document.
You chose a font, typists,
Factually impartial,
Utterly faceless.
Page after page,
You dissected the moment
With a blunt knife,
With a coarse blade.
The language is military,
Saturated with initials,
Each paragraph given a number,
Like the personal number of soldiers.
I am facing the document,
My face, disheartened, its shape hardened.
Tear after tear.
The word “rest”
Drives a knife into my living flesh,
Into the midriff.
I curse you.
Do not abbreviate.
Soldiers are not numbers.
You do not sum them.
You do not summarize them.
You typed a name, a number, a soldier—
“Rest in Peace.”
Still facing me, there is only the document.
About this poem
To those who loved Lior, my he rest in peace, and faced that document
Carry these words
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