Truce

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
 
            surrender.
Monday, January 14, 2019