Am I this crumbling
——–—country? Occupied
by flies—the great
——–—green-eyed beauties
of death. My name
——–—etched on a bullet,
a bomb. A bountiful
——–—idea of god torn
in two.

I haven’t covered
——–—my eyes in years,
praying softly into
——–—my own hands.
The dome, the cross,
——–—the wall, wonder,
could we bow
——–—under the same sun?

I open my hand
——–—and the rain slaps it.
I do not belong
——–—here, this boundary,
border. I am not
——–—allowed to exist,

tethered to this
——–—great pile of
sand and drift.
——–—Let anyone
anywhere call
——–—this home.

 

 

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Hadara Bar-Nadav is an NEA fellow and author of poetry collections including The Animal Is Chemical (Four Way), The New Nudity, and Lullaby (with Exit Sign) (both from Saturnalia). She is a professor of English and teaches in the MFA program at the University of Missouri–Kansas City.

 

 

 

Photo by amirali mirhashemian on Unsplash