the boy with           untied shoelaces           unaware that time           is a luxury reserved for those who live in different geographies
somewhere           a pilot presses a button
somewhere           a general           signs a paper
somewhere           a spokesman           prepares to say unfortunate
the missiles do not ask if you’ve finished your morning rituals they do not care about the small fingers still learning           to loop           to pull           to tighten           to survive
his mother screams “YALLA HABIBI YALLA,” but childhood moves at its own pace in Gaza even urgency has its limitations
they will later say he was in the vicinity of they will later say human shields they will later say never again while saying once more
the doorframe becomes a mouth            concrete becomes utensils           flesh becomes meal
shoelaces still dangling when they find him when they dig him out from under his inheritance
they do not show this on television            they do not count the shoes left behind           they do not report on the many ways childhood ends
in the yard the orange tree drops its fruit too early the ground rejects what was not meant to fall
how strange to outlive your children how strange to outlive your tree