Syrian internally displaced persons
Syrian refugees walk outside their tents at a camp for internally displaced persons in Atmeh, Syria, adjacent to the Turkish border.


There are times I think of mother with me,
no more words to speak,
just the holding.
Folding into her heart, anything
Precious, near
though those pieces may be
useless now:

The pebbles under the sand, like old currency
Or the rusty chain links
creating palpable places
passed over by a bird overhead
beating it’s wings as hard as it can
believing in its work, still
refraining from laughter
And some days the sky will be clear again
With only one cloud
not blocking the sun
how useless, I whisper
My mouth is dry
My mother’s must be, too
holding everything precious
With no words

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