Forest of Noise

This is not a poem.

This is a grave, not

beneath the soil of Homeland,

but above a flat, light white

rag of paper.

Even

the sparrow on the lemon tree nearby wondered how they

could

move

with

no

wings.

She sings a night song to bury in the ground the sound of bombs,

to disappear the whirring of drones back into the clouds.

In my ears, I’m hiding

my mother’s stories

In my ears, I’m hiding

my mother’s stories

In my ears, I’m hiding

my mother’s stories

In my ears, I’m hiding

my mother’s stories

In my ears, I’m hiding

my mother’s stories

In my ears, I’m hiding

my mother’s stories

In my ears, I’m hiding

my mother’s stories,