We'll round up mushrooms from the forest and toss them in the straw-woven basket and then we'll curl
our toes around the coarse bark of a tree and swing from
it with the spindly rope stiff with dried mud we found in the
barn behind the house. We'll chew on grass and
make it whistle and then we'll clasp hands and
twirl around on the lichen-covered floor,
running away from the insects that emerge.
When the mosquitoes begin whispering into
our ears we'll walk to the field and sit
against the lone sycamore amid the towering grasses.
We'll watch the pulses of light from the
grenades and bombs illuminating the evening
sky and we'll listen to the distant echoes
of gunshots from the city. We'll talk about what they
say, how every time the bombs go off, more children come,
more parents are lost, how despair becomes indisputable.
Later, when silence caresses our hair and
the debris and ashes blanket the field,
I'll hook my fingers into the holes of your brown shirt
and we'll walk for eternity until we reach
the decrepit house with the gaping front door where
bombs puncture the earth, and children disappear from their beds.
We'll trip over the graves tomorrow.