Alone in a crowd
of thoughts:
what they'll do to survive
is nothing to what I'll do.

Fussed blonde hair
will crust with blood
of a stranger
she'll disdain on the bus —
for my mother they forced to uncover.

Toned, tanned muscle
will fluster with nails
harder and leaner than his meat
privileged with push-ups —
for my brother bombed at his wedding.

Beautiful child turned garbage.
Soft scented skin flyblown
in an instant's commingling with
my Muslim flesh —
for my sister they raped.

Poised, auburn-framed face
will melt in heat and screams.
Charred eyes will see my grace
rise to Paradise on her skin smoke —
for my father they tortured.

When I grow up.