what is hope
to a mourning father
.
not the flesh
unfolding hot and dark red
where your smile had beamed
under the evening sun
.
not the 2000-pound bomb,
the oxygen tanks or medical tents
you hang limp, you have no choice
his hands make tight hooks
in your slender frame
knees and shoulders
he tries with everything to hold you together
.
not passage
you are the gate, closing
another line crossed
you are Rafah
and tonight he has seen you in flames
.
a camera records it
a flash unrecognizable across his desperate face
but for the eyes of strangers
a twitch of your finger
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