When our neighbor’s son was gunned down
in Beirut
when streets flooded after monsoon-like rains
my parents would only say, inshallah things
will get better
At the beach when I was eight
a flurry of people rushed into the water
then returned, somber,
carrying a young man’s limp body on a raft
Once as my mother’s nimble fingers
braided my long black locks
I watched a war unfold on TV
Some nights I fell asleep reciting my parents’
words
inshallah things will get better
often thinking that maybe I, too,
could come face to face with a gun or a bomb
from the sky
storms that could sweep away my home
or whirlpools as I swam in the sea
and just like that
my life would end
a little brown body washed ashore