Do you know that your mother’s nipples are dry bones? That her breasts are bursting with depleted uranium?
Do you know that the womb’s window overlooks a confiscated land?
Do you know that your tomorrow has no tomorrow? And that your blood is the ink of new maps?
Do you know that your mother is weaving the slowness of her moments into an elegy? And she is already morning you?
Don’t be shy. Your funeral is over. The tears are dry and everyone’s gone.
Come forward. It’s only a short way. Don’t be late. Your grave is looking at its watch.
Don’t be afraid. We’ll arrange your bones whichever way you want and leave your skull like a flower on top.
Come forward. Your many friends await and there are more every day.
Your ghosts will play together.

Sinan Antoon,
To An Iraqi Infant