before I welcome the sun, / money on my mind, doctor fees / cost of raising a child just born / It’s not my kid, but shouldn’t we / manage to care for every one, / and feed each child as if it were / our own swaddled and beloved heir?

Carpeted, cushioned, well lit. Clean water flows on demand. Six ceramic mugs stand by to hold my choice of many teas. In the heat and dust of war another woman, in a tent, has no cup, no spoon, no tea. She has a hungry child.

Building a violin begins with a walk in the woods to choose the sacrificial tree. A saw blade bites, the tree falls, forsaking its roots. Sawn boards dry, each one, tapped, has its own voice The violin plates, front and back, marry, gain ribs and neck, pegs and varnish, gleaming, lose all semblance of raw…