Lucian C. Mattison
You lived happily. The rocket
struck the wall like a hammer of lilies.
Colored cloth tied to the barrels
of rifles fluttered as if waking the wind
to itself. Night shelling was a game
of hide-and-go-seek in the movie theater
basement, and the next day, they
mourned the found with pictures of
their unfound faces, a parade of opposition
colors, more banners and songs
to buoy the air. Many left, you
among them, to live absent
of conditioned fear, a parallel life.
Makdissi continued to follow Hamra,
demonstrations ushered the trucks
of soldiers—emptied and filled like beer
glasses on the bar. Nationalist of the present
tense, blinded augur, you wish
for nothing more than the chance
to draw lines around happiness
again: bouquet of childhood, petals
like ticker tape, wind carrying you
like prayers to a neighbor’s window.
Mary Liza Hartong
The scarecrow wants a brain.
The tin man wants a heart.
The witch just wants a pair of shoes
which, if you ask me, only proves
that women are not frivolous
but learn to want less from the start.