1.

the first neighbour I remember came from Lebanon
she’s here my mother said because she 
couldn’t stay because the war 

we were in Tehran and I tried to 
imagine it—noise, a crumbled home 
(I wasn’t reading yet)

people don’t know about the stretched-out days 
but let me tell you there’s never no-war
once you’ve seen it 

every life can be crumpled every 
building collapsed every happiness 
in hindsight squandered 

peace slips back so easily 

2.

it came suddenly 

first far away and we 
felt sorry for those people 

come stay with us we said hoping 
they wouldn’t and when they did, we felt 
ashamed for wanting to keep out their silent 
pain and sudden rages 

(it was only weeks, we thought 
hasn’t the world seen so much worse)

and then

3.

most people carry on 
until the days become an endless
expedition for food and water

one day I stood outside my house that 
pile of rubble a whole afternoon waiting 
for the young woman with her notebook 
who said she’d come back but didn’t

angry with myself for wanting to speak 

do you want to hear about the 
zoo keeper the museum guard the archivist 

the one who said I’m ashamed to say 
when I heard they were coming 
I thought first of the books 
where I’d hide them 

I imagined calling the bank manager imagined 
asking about the vault—how big how many is it 
fire proof—calculating which ones I’d save and only then 

did I think of my children because 
who kills children I thought 
to make me feel better