YEMEN
The children run barefoot,
some
with tomatoes in their
mouths while
others steal the dew from
purple
flowers meant for bees.
no thorns or shredded glass
can stop them
but a punctured football
from
a stray bullet can.
They throw rocks at a
limping dog
with cages for ribs and
watch as
the desert hides him away.
The dog returns to lick the
blood
from their hands, to lick
those children’s hands as
they
lie piled under wounds of
houses.
The nights are sprayed with
diamond
specks and at times God
decides to add
a streak of silver across
the black page.
The same nights I fall
asleep to the
lullaby of mortar shots
skidding
across the same black page.
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