kids of war (refugee camp in Rafah, May 2024)

my brother and I run between tents

hold our noses around the trash piles

slip and slide through some mud

and reach the broken slabs of cement

scramble up and over  sandals

skidding on the broken glass 

turn down an alley we’ve never been

and reach a burned-out truck

open the doors and climb in

it stinks like rotten meat  red pieces of glass

cover the charred seats and floor 

above us  a jagged hole in the roof

while I turn the wheel and pretend

to drive  making engine sounds

my brother leans across the shaft

of sunlight and opens the glovebox

pulls out a curled burned photo

of a man a woman and a child

I’ve seen that kid at the camp

sitting alone with an old woman

I remember he just stared

when I waved

she was busy eating something

and he held a spoon

I never saw it move