The Way Back Home
S. G. MORADI
We grew up on salty rocks, collecting bullets, / holding onto hope as if it were a jump rope that / come our turn, would go on spinning forever / our feet never failing us. / We ran through sunburnt alleys, kicking up / clouds of dust that were quick to settle / as if somehow knowing / that we had nowhere else to go.
We grew up on salty rocks, collecting bullets, / holding onto hope as if it were a jump rope that / come our turn, would go on spinning forever / our feet never failing us. / We ran through sunburnt alleys, kicking up / clouds of dust that were quick to settle / as if somehow knowing / that we had nowhere else to go.
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