I’ve grown

scared of the sun-

rise, waiting 

for the flicker of light

against the black

of our horizon. My 

sister and I draw shapes

in the sand, imagining

bows and arrows 

against a fist

of glass. We 

so quickly forget 

ourselves, waiting 

for white phosphorous 

to streak the sky 

like stolen light, our 

recycling of bodies 

becoming timeless. 

Our mother says 

we’re a series of parallel 

lines who cannot 

intersect, she says my sister 

and I must cannibalize 

each other, so one of us 

stays warm. To honor 

the apparitions 

of the war-

torn fields at dusk, we

bow our heads

and drink.

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