The drone of planes is whining overhead.
The sand beneath me burns my naked toes.
The wind tugs at my burqa. My fear grows.
My husband, crying: “Flee, or we’ll be dead!”
We run. We have been running since the dawn.
My daughters—to be married!—run beside.
My husband, never slowing in his stride—
“Our home,” he says. “Our land will soon be gone.”
Our home. Is this the great, just wrath of God
For crimes against the stranger and the poor?
These bombs that bloom with sulfur in a roar—
Am I supposed to sit back and applaud
The deaths of friends and family, hopes and fears?
I’ll salt the ground I walk on with my tears.
Cover image by Mohamed Nohassi.
Sign Up Today
You don’t have to miss anything. We send out weekly notifications when we publish a new issue. We like you—so we won’t sell your info to Google or the NSA or even advertisers, they probably already have it anyway.