Heat
The
siren came
back: a
tail of
sound
whipping
the air,
rising and
falling,
ending
in that
long note
like a sustained
stab
to the mind.
We ran to
hide
under
the stairs
in an emptied
school.
A
man from
one of the
classrooms
approached
us to offer
grandma
a
space with
his family.
She thanked
him,
but
said no.
That classroom
was bombed
and
everybody
in it died.
When we
went
back
home, it
was already
morning,
and
shrapnel
had grown
in our backyard
like
alien fruit.
We stared
at it
from
the doorway
as the morning
basked
in an unusual
peace.
This
was why
the siren
had made
us
run.
We thought
about its
scorched
bits
flying
to burst
our skulls.
We imagined
our
punctured
bodies littering
the lawn.
We
walked out
one by one
to touch
it,
tasting
its heat
through
our fingers.