by Ed Webb
Dawn found her calm, but unslept.
Her mother made tea, and stroked her hair,
Took no breakfast help nor comfort.
Was the single tear proud or sad? Asking was out of reach.
She washed carefully, dressed carefully, offered confident prayers for
This house abandoned,
her mother's remaining years,
the day's deeds.
Stepped forth proudly from this house with no men
Into a world of strangers,
Holding at her breast her secret joy.
At the checkpoint, the explosion.
Ed Webb studies and teaches Middle East politics. It can be depressing.
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