Maybe in another life / you would have lost your tooth / instead of your eye.

We were sitting at the harbor / talking about university buses / about crowding / about nothing important.

What does it mean to be / a refugee / To always feel /something missing.

Wash us with the water of hope / and clothe us in a white garment / not a shroud. 

A new year, / they say. / But here— / it’s an alarm. / Not hope. / Not renewal.

After a year, the body of Santa is / still under the rubble along with / his bag of gifts and the list of names / of the children.

Each night I wrap myself in her, begging her / not to abandon me on this long dark road.

I tremble each time / a table of food / appears before me.

As for me—If I must die, let my body remain whole.

You were / The sigh of an orange tree / The hymn of faith, and love, and joy.

I know my poem won’t / prevent the next bomb / won’t even save itself / from choking under the rubble.

Maybe I would have more / than blurred memories of my land.