Day 922

She dreams of a horse
that can carry her
over the rubble, rise up
above it
until they arrive
at a green place, a place
with fruit trees and flowers,
a place like her grandfather’s farm
before everything happened.
She dreams of a bird
large enough, strong enough
to soar over ruined cities
with her on its back,
until they come to a place
where her school still stands,
where her friends
are alive and waiting
for her, where they shout
her name, take her hands,
pull her into their game.
She dreams of her mother
breathing, speaking,
walking with her
to the edge of the sea,
the smell of salt
mixed with the smell
of her mother’s hair.
She dreams their feet
are washed by the tide.
She dreams there are
no bombs, no drones, no warplanes.
No corpses.  No severed limbs.
Only the unending sound of the waves
coming in, receding.