Listen: there are whimpers in the rubble, tanks
razing orchards, light rising in her
birthday throat. Owl butterflies poke senselessly
into turf, muezzins chant into silver, calling
kestrels and corpses to prayer. We stretch
till language comes, augured through
rock, hung between air and loss.
Sometimes the wire quiets. We worry
they won’t make it back, black wings
thick with thought and memory.
Our throne grows cold, ears
set for the wormhole rush—
stars stirring into one
stream that flies, muse
both shrouded and seen.