Swarthmore's independent campus newspaper since 1881

Ceasefire

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You died a day before the ceasefire.

Another tally they forget

but we remember.

 

You were born on national day:

an honor they don’t deserve.

They cheer in the city square,

Their planes fly past like vultures,

their fireworks explode like grenades.

They put your name last

on a stone slab

in the middle of the park

like that’s going to stop

the list from growing—

At home we bake you a cake.

Children outside try to steal it,

they haven’t eaten in days.

We give it to them, eventually

and Mama cries in your old room.

 

Mama plucks the flag from your grave

and throws it into a bag full of weeds.

She crumples onto your tombstone

and doesn’t come home till dusk.

 

Mama died a year after the ceasefire.

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