When the leaflets ordering us to leave fluttered upon our ruins, we thought even the seagulls flying toward their ocean possessed the grace to die, as we witnessed their synchronized capsizing. God, if I could name you, it would be refugee, newborn swallowed by sea, father whose arms collect beached infant bodies, none of them his own, all of them his own. Amidst the hollow bones snapping mid-air, mirage of dry people on land scoffing, pronouncing Muslim with a hard “Z,” dirty word on tongues turned dead birds. God, if I could name you, it would be removal. They tell us to leave. They never tell us. Wreck. Flock. Come.
Published in Riggwelter Press.