Say, Gaza

He is turned, slightly,
�just a boy, in his own home.
�Say, Gaza.

�

Someone took a photograph
�in the ruin of what was
�his life. Black and white. Sharp

�

shadows. Light falls on what is not
�exercising its own right of return;
�picture a bad dream. His city. A fringe

�

clinging to the sea. A window open. No,
�broken. At first, you don’t see it. You
�don’t want to. You say “rubble.” But

�

there is a bomb in the bed.
�The bed is broken by the bomb,
�much bigger than the bed.

�

Don’t worry, no blood. But
�there is a boy in the room
�with the bomb in the bed.

�

The bed, a broken V, sunk
�across the middle. Sheets rumpled,
�not from sleeping.

�

The boy wonders where
�will he sleep? When
�will it explode?

�

His home, a fringe
�clinging to the sea.

�

Say, Gaza.

�

�