Gaza

At noon I hang the clothes on a wire
strung between what is left of two walls.
They do not dry.
The air carries a fine dust
that settles again as soon as I shake it loose.

There is a shoe in the street
without its pair.
A cup turned on its side.
The window frame still holds
a strip of curtain that lifts and falls.

My daughter walks beside me.
She asks where we will sleep.
I tell her we will find a place.
I do not say the word home.

A building nearby has opened
as if cut through.
Rooms exposed.
A bed tilted against nothing.
A calendar still turned to last month.

Someone calls a name
and waits.
No answer comes.
They call again, softer.

We carry what we can.
Bread wrapped in cloth.
A bottle half full.
Her hand in mine, small and dry.

At the edge of the road
a man sits with his back to a wall
that is no longer a wall.
He is holding something
I cannot see clearly
and does not want to.

There was a wedding last week.
Lights strung across the alley.
Music from a phone.
For a while we stood together
and forgot to be afraid.

Now the wires hang loose.
The lights are gone.

In the evening
we sit where the ground is level.
The sky darkens in the usual way.
I am surprised by this.

My daughter leans against me.
She sleeps.

I stay awake.