You can’t even see
where a border might
be drawn.
The ocean is a pond,
comprehendible, might
as well be a home
for ducks .
Bombs,
if even heard,
are a pop; fireworks, might
just be Eid.
Gaza is sleeping soundly.
From the sky, I become
insect, faceless
and prefer it that way.
What is a country
to a vacuum?
What is a flag
on the moon?
From the sky,
I become child, again,
asking my father about space stations,
this one is Russian,
this one is American.
this one is American.
They are all toys,
they are all plastic,
floating.
Hazem Fahmy is a Pushcart-nominated writer and critic from Cairo. He runs Zam Zoum, a monthly newsletter on Substack. He is currently pursuing his MA in Middle Eastern Studies and Film Studies from the University of Texas at Austin. His debut chapbook, Red//Jild//Prayer won the 2017 Diode Editions Contest. A Kundiman and Watering Hole Fellow, his poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming in Apogee, AAWW, The Boston Review and The Offing. His performances have been featured on Button Poetry and Write About Now.