Monday, January 14, 2019
Some days
            we are 
bombed harbors, 
            then silence.  
Other days 
            I speak, my voice
a snake, cursive 
            in deserts. A father 
and son. Two 
            countries. Flags whipping 
in wind. I know the words 
            I need 
to whisper. Words
            keeping us 
apart. My shirt twisted 
            in his fist, he tugs 
at me. Back turned, I shake him 
            off. My torn 
sleeve, a white cloth 
            he holds up. Shots fire
from my mouth. Stop. Tell me 
            what you want—
words in our own war story 
            he can't 
answer.  My son  
            seized. Ancestors 
trapped. Grandmother walks
            on boards, carries 
my baby mother over mud and horse shit
            of Tanforan. Wraps her 
with blankets in Topaz—their sand 
            prison. Singed wiring
in his brain. Light forking 
            the sky, Mother 
blinks. Like my son, she    
            doesn’t know 
the words. Bedtime 
            stories, a nightly 
clash, my hands guiding 
            his head, forcing his eyes 
back on the page. Rain
            on tin, hum of songs, her father 
missing. Empty deserts. Shudder
            of flags. The mouth and its silent 
dust. Between quiet 
            and the noise, I reach 
the edge. Almost
Monday, January 14, 2019