A Mothers Day poem

In winter, the stars
Can suck the light
Right out of the sky.
It must have been like that
The night I was born
In the camp,
Although I had no clue
About that kind of thing.

My brothers, already ancient
Thought the bombed-out
Staircases, leading only up
And nowhere else,
Were built that way on purpose,
For them to play on,
And inevitably jump or fall,
Gravity victorious after all.

Children can’t be disappointed,
Having expected nothing.
Children think hunger
Is normal, pain is life,
And deprivation obvious.

Mothers aren’t like that.
They only wish their children
Could long for something.


A plane touches down
At Sana airport

Taxis past broken lives,
Dead dreams,
Opens its bay and accepts
A stream of humanity
And departs

It’s an old river
Its drainage is ambition,
Pride, retribution.
It has flowed in torrents
Since all of time

See, here, on this map
The deep gorge it cuts
Through history
Its course so familiar
It is forgotten
By every new generation

Some seek power, wealth
Others, only refuge.