Refugees
By Holly Karapetkova
Our lullaby
automatic weapon fire
our teachers
bodies in the streets
our parents
whispered stories of stars
who climbed so high
they fell upward into the sky.
We mounted cliffs to find them
climbed every tree;
the bullets flew through the air
and we dropped
like rocks rolling
across the fat plains.
We left for higher mountains:
north, where white powder
fell from the sky—
a kind of magic, cold and wet.
One brother made a blanket of it,
fell asleep and never awoke,
our parents the stars
looking down in silence
unable to speak
the language.
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