Dear Mr. President:
There was a time when my family was happy.
Father played the violin on Sundays, and sunlight
filled the living room of my memory. Mother fried
eggplants in the kitchen. She hummed like Fairuz.
My brother read books on the Arabian Nights
on the red couch. I rolled on the Persian rug
until I felt dizzy. Then a bomb exploded near the souk.
Our windowpanes shattered. The mosque collapsed
on the bridge. The violin broke from the neck.
The eggplants charred. Brother bled on the couch.
I waited for the rug to magically rise
and take flight into the night.