By Judith H. Montgomery / Poetry /       Today, hunched under bomb burst in Rafah, three men—  bloodied, powdered by dust—scramble from their cracked  shelter to the new crater, its fatal blaze, its blasted concrete  walls. Despite danger. Their bare hands tear at the debris,  red wrack-line of war: to dig out someone, anyone,  who might survive. Today it is a family half-buried  beneath broken slabs. Ignoring mortar flare, they lever out the father, his trapped chest, ravage