Truce
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.
