Spine twists into pomegranate streets
no words for deformed faces, desecrated
bodies not yet covered in white.
Hope drips from tips of fingers moulding home
in the glitter of rooftop cries to god
in a dua blown into jasmine wind
in a bullet blasting inside a woman’s chest.
Hope drips in battered limbs between
batons, broken bones across
broken earth. Home.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.