At night, I brush my hair,
check the mirror for bald
patches and gray strands.
Somewhere in the world
bombs are falling,
cities empty, long lines
of refugees in cars and buses,
the wounded, even the dead,
follow behind.
Ancient homelands vanish,
cities sink, burial grounds
fracked or fractured
by pipelines or drones.
Sleepless nights,
pitiless days.
Hospitals, schools,
apartment buildings,
gone. One wall remains,
a single photograph
hangs akilter—
someone else’s life
these broken dreams
of brushing hair
still connected to bone.
