I pluck my ancestors eyes
from their faces
& fasten them to mine.
Widowed tree,
roads caravanned with cars
browned date palms, trampled.
The house packed
in twenty minutes, suitcase
crammed with toys & attah.
The war
no one calls war
crisps my Ullu’s tongue.
He runs towards
& away while the field
—while the ghost trains
deliver bones, burnt
while I bury the stories
of my dead at the tree’s base
to dig up when winter ends.