Arvilla Fee: All Is Fair

All Is Fair

He didn’t ask for this—this land war;
nor did his father, his grandfather, or
his grandfather’s father,
and yet—the scream of rockets,
plumes of fire and acrid smoke are as much
a part of his home as olive trees and ravens.
He thinks about his ancestors as he slinks
through a narrow alley beneath a bleak,
mid-waning moon and wonders how many
before him have cut down the same dark streets,
careful to avoid the bodies of the uncollected,
careful to remain unseen by prying eyes
as wildly desperate as his own.
Looking over his shoulder, he inches himself
towards a building, which, by some kind fate,
has remained standing—and within its limestone
walls lies something far more precious than gold,
a gift he will give to his children so he can soften
the hollow points of their cheeks.
He places three loaves of bread within the folds
of his overcoat and whispers, God forgive me
before closing the broken door.

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