by Matthew Murrey
Some nights I think,
“What a wretched day.
Tomorrow has to be
better.” In the morning I
ride that hope. How it lifts
up from this bitter earth.
Maybe food will get through.
Maybe safe walls will shelter
the terrified and displaced.
Maybe missiles will stay
stowed in their crates.
How it leaves the ground.
How wide the wingspan is.
How I watch knowing this
—like so much captured
footage these days—
does not end well.
It climbs, then does not.
Nose up, it goes down,
more glide than plunge,
until it disappears among
low buildings on the ground.
A huge billow of fire
and black smoke tells me
more than I want to know.
Tomorrow has to be
better.” In the morning I
ride that hope. How it lifts
up from this bitter earth.
Maybe food will get through.
Maybe safe walls will shelter
the terrified and displaced.
Maybe missiles will stay
stowed in their crates.
How it leaves the ground.
How wide the wingspan is.
How I watch knowing this
—like so much captured
footage these days—
does not end well.
It climbs, then does not.
Nose up, it goes down,
more glide than plunge,
until it disappears among
low buildings on the ground.
A huge billow of fire
and black smoke tells me
more than I want to know.
Matthew Murrey is the author of Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019) and the forthcoming collection Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026). Recent poems are in Dissident Voice, One, Anthropocene, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for more than 20 years and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Bluesky and Instagram under the handle @mytwords.