The genocide has never tired 

of visiting the city, 

bringing its nails and teeth and legs 

and the shadow of ghosts 

walking side by side,

bringing its tongue to consume the language of a child. 

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So many of our children

have been raised to heaven. 

The roads in the sky are crowded. 

Souls, angels, warplanes, rockets.

I think of the rest of the children who are still on earth. 

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Genocide, missiles, death, corpse, 

heads, shrapnel, quadcopter, tent, 

death, and displacement are the new vocabulary test

Don’t worry, the child knows them all. 

The eyes of the child see all the meanings. 

If only spring were the lone missing word.

But dad and mom, house and home and spring, 

fresh cold watermelon, grapes, olives, swing, 

and sweet dreams at bed time— 

when there were a bed and a time—are now 

the missing words of the new dictionary. 

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