from where she lies
a cloudless slit of dawn
the goddess defiant
burns through concrete

she counts
the noise of drones
counts again

the sky turns orange
she mutters to herself
heaven has no business here

on the horizon
a goat steps
through dust
a plastic bag
snagged on its horn

she crouches
her body is stone
this street was once laughter
Abu Sami’s son sold figs
from a splintered crate

moving slowly
her sandals
two different sizes

she sees the sea
but can’t reach it
the fence knows her
better than her mirror

leaning against
the cool wall
eyes open
shutters
that will not close

midday siren
pomegranate juice spills
all down the child’s sleeve

nothing much to say
too much to say
she writes it on
the inside of her elbow
with a matchstick

the night enters
from the south
stars that do not
belong to anyone

Paul Conneally
June 26th 2025