Just imagine
One person close to you
Dead
Your father or your brother or your son
Imagine the outpouring of grief
If you can imagine this
You would not be a
A cheerleader
For the mob baying
“We got forty-three of theirs
They only got twenty of ours”
As if it were a scorecard
In a football game
And not
Sixty-three dead human beings
Fathers, brothers, sons, husbands