Speaks on a small child who’d walked more than
seven miles. How in his brief success, he’d been
able to amass just one-half sack of
glorious rice, a broken bag of lentils,
other food scraps, perhaps less from the dirt
road. That meager haul, meant for all his fam
ily, who’d awaited the five-year-old’s great
return. How he huddled the heaving hands
of the American’s in his coloring
book fingers, like little teacups overf
lowing with thanks: shukrans & kisses.
How he’d passed the “berm” before being shot
dead. Strange, I think, to use the word berm, soft
like water and not see your own reflection.
Katherine Shehadeh is a writer and mom of 2, who resides with her family in Miami, Florida. Her recent poems have been published in Witness, Laurel Review, Maintenant & others. Find her on Instagram @katherinesarts or on the www at katherinesarts.com.
Comments are closed.