Every morning last week, two butterflies appeared near the bush by our back window– they flickered there, like static from your mother’s old radio, or faraway lightning– or j0y. This week, they’re suddenly gone– like the tailorbirds’ storm-broken nest, or your mother– or Umar Khalid. How long has it been since they took him? you ask as we enter the park.Comments closed
Poems about the dark times.