War

The sand drifts slowly from the roof, I grasp the bread with a trembling hand. Looking at my palm, I think it's already gone. Can I eat this bread? Will I perish before it's swallowed whole? The house bears cracks, much like my heart does too, Is that a rocket hurtling our way? Should I finish my meal or flee to safety? Such is my choice tonight. I watch my mother's hand sprinkle salt upon the dish, That same hand has fed me for seventeen years. I've envisioned it stained with blood, Already severed from her frame. Sirens of rockets and ambulances sound our doom, So why does my mother prepare this meal with grace? Perhaps she readies us for our end, For this is how mothers tend to prepare. Why do you kneel in prayer? Wishing to meet your end upon that mat? My brother in his crib, sips milk from a bottle, Is it milk or blood he drinks? Do humans lose their minds just before death? The building gave way. Dear humanity, we're left with but one choice: to watch our mothers serve dinner and accept what comes.