Kerri Shying R # 316 - Rohingya children

Rohingya children

small  is not the word

for your half-open skull

the flower of a mother’s heart

flung away from the stalk 

and reassembled   like the toy

held still in your hand

your mother dead 

your cousins crossed the river  just

at the time your death

 arrived   for me to carry on

this face  your seed

of life

nothing blossoms

anymore   for your ancestors

but stones