“¿Qué dice?” Mami demanded, / pulling at the coloring book and scented markers pressed to my chest replacing them with today’s mail.

In this city whose name is a tumble of / scree, / I circle old town lanes in search of / something whole, / something holy / and see the pink bedspread, / the potted geranium, / a child’s hung dress / in a house razored open

The planes had struck many bombs and missiles all over the city. What we saw no one can describe, because there are no words in this world.