— Shireen Madon

Dear house

                            violated house
                            holding to the riverbank,

              some distance from a grenade’s soliloquy

your daughters wearing crowns of jasmine.

Dear house

                            made of seams
                            and a succession of hungers

              your family, daily,

feeding you a certain measure of terror.

Dear house

                            in a city on the ground
                            in a bed of no one,

              your confinement a singular sickness

your daughters lick from burnished walls.

Dear house

                            of endearing rubble,

              the small animal

of your heart hibernates. You find a way to disappear.

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