There’s nothing living here,
Only sea shells warped to the shapes
of their exiled residents,
trinkets from the kingdom of childhood.
The forecast calls for white phosphorous
with occasional sun breaks
barrel bombs in the afternoon,
and in the evening
checkpoints and falling temperatures.
We reach for what is useful,
a skin to wear between weather
patterns, a flame resistant faith,
to fit into our backpacks.
Lena Khalaf Tuffaha