— Shireen Madon
holding to the riverbank,
some distance from a grenade’s soliloquy
your daughters wearing crowns of jasmine.
made of seams
and a succession of hungers
your family, daily,
feeding you a certain measure of terror.
in a city on the ground
in a bed of no one,
your confinement a singular sickness
your daughters lick from burnished walls.
of endearing rubble,
the small animal
of your heart hibernates. You find a way to disappear.
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