Eruane

In this dream, I change. I tuck astray hair behind my ear without irritation, slant over the child with a smile the world hasn't seen, look the year in the eye before it stares back. I smile so my sabr is documented - my attendance, a matter of record. I feel my Pulse with a wrist half a world away, hush Aleppo with my finger pressed to the parted lips of tear gas. I taste ash and tell myself it is not children bones. I resist the urge to pray. Send thoughts with guilt. Come up for air only to wish to have lost the ability to. In this dream, I remember the poem. The one this soil once trembled underneath. My pregnant mother's feet hur