She was sleeping when the bomb set off only fifteen miles away.
Her dreams became louder
as the flames licked through the shattered window
of the sedan that had just entered the inner-city.
Bright lights shone on the inside of her eyelids
like the glow that lit up the muddy walls of the courthouse in flames.
Her name was Naeem.
She was eight years old.
She was only eight
when the shrapnel shot through her mother’s left temple
and entered the throat of the suitor
who was driving her to the hotel room.
His wallet full of bills
to pay for her groceries the next day.
It was December 25th.
We were asking for something shiny,
when Naeem’s tears glistened in the moonlight.