Gaza
Once in a tiny strip
dark holes swallowed hearts
and one child told another
withdraw your breath
whenever the night wind
is no longer a land of dreams
The Gazans
I died before I lived
I lived once in a grave
now I’m told it’s not big enough
to hold all of my deaths
Tiny Feet
A mother looks at another—
a sea of small bodies
burnt or decapitated
around them—
and asks,
How do we mourn this?
