TRAGIC MISHAPS FROM MY LIFE: A PARTIAL LIST
“20 Killed in Gaza Hospital Strikes. Netanyahu Claims ‘Tragic Mishap.’”
—New York Times headline, August 25, 2025
mishap (noun):
1. : an unfortunate accident.
2. : bad luck; misfortune.
—Merriam-Webster
The time my neighbor’s oak
toppled onto our shed
one clear evening
the same week my husband
was unjustifiably fired.
The fence, the roof,
his dignity, our morale—
all splintered.
The sunny Friday in March
a tractor-trailer forced
me off the highway.
The driver barreled on
while I sat in the ditch
stunned. Kind strangers
came running. Chunks
of my memory vanished.
Others pressed in
as the years went by—
loud, hot.
With claws.
With tusks.
With fangs.
The time the neighbor’s
budgie died while they
wandered Disney.
Not my fault,
but on my watch.
I had fed it, spoke to it
as I poured water into its basin.
Guilt’s feathers smothered
my child heart.
And just last month
at work I looked down:
the stone from my
engagement ring gone.
Somewhere in this
wide, indifferent world
a small flame of a jewel
rests unnoticed
while the band’s prongs
gape like a mouth
waiting to be fed.
The tree.
The truck.
The bird.
The ring.
Accidents, all.
Bad luck.
Misfortune.
Tragic mishaps.
But Bibi, here’s what’s not:
Twenty dead in a bombed-
out hospital.
Not wind and rot.
Not a wrong turn of the wheel.
Not a pet ceasing to breathe.
Not luck.
A place of healing
reduced to dust.
No more a mishap
than those precious
lives lost on October 7.
My God, won’t you strip
me of this quiet complacency?
It grows like mold
along the edges
of my mind.
Make your way
straight before us.
Rid our hearts
of destruction.
Save our throats
from becoming
the open graves
they threaten
to be.
