big brown eyes looking
for something familiar;
I’m screaming as loud as I can
“Hide, baby, hide!”
but my voice can’t travel –
in my sleep you call me “mama”.
one more dawn/ you count the bombs goodmorning
one, two, three
and then a leg next to a book next to a fork
next to a finger next to a dress next to a box
next to life gone.
One more night/ you pray you will have more days
not as a vicitm of war, not as refugee,
not as the man who lost his eye, or his child, or his home
or himself when someone he’s never met,
decided that he will be collateral damage.
Miles away/ late at night
I put together letters;
I write and delete and write and delete and write and delete;
religiously building a shrine to hold your memory in-
war won’t ever fit in words