Tonight war serves
its usual portion,
I close the windows and chew worry.
Outside, black-masked men holding
black flags are shouting black
scripture, missiles shattering
through my guts long before
they find our street.
I try to swallow my thoughts,
they scrape their way down.
Usually on war days, I dress in white.
The missiles are closer, the phone rings
but I'm walking in circles, rehearsing
old tragedies on a shrinking stage.
Sleep won’t take me. My skin bristles,
like a field of needles
threaded with winter wire.
I pick up. Your voice
floats in, warmth behind glass,
steady, untouched,
while I unravel quietly,
just beyond the sound.
