FOR THOSE WE LEFT BEHIND

each day i ask my mother
what we do
                        when we can't fight,
                        and there is no money
left to give. tired, she lifts
                        her eyes from the dishes,
                        her hands up from the bath,
and gives:
                        a gentle laugh,
                        a sigh, we make
                        du’a, we pray

                        for whatever remains
            after the sea rises
to swallow our shore

This poem first appeared in Sidekick Lit in November 2016. To view the poem as it originally appeared, visit the publication here.