“Too Young to Spell Death”: Three poems by Hala al-Khatib
Speaking to his
family through the sky, he
wonders: did I not bury
them in a grave, how did
they go up?
“Whenever I hear the name of a child that was randomly massacred,” Sarah Iqelan
I close my eyes and visualize,
them climbing a stairway to heaven,
with clean clothes, smiley faces,
leaving the cruel earth behind,
knowing no fear or hunger…
“Rations,” Hind Jouda
Five days under siege with no food or water.
Emerging, the family is shot dead.
My tongue feels dry.