We were not the lucky ones, those who knew to escape the witching hour.
Now, we inhale asphalted blocks; invite them to jostle against our tissued lungs
visualize our sadness as orbs sitting on seeded chairs in front of us,
dangling their thin legs
blinking quietly every two seconds or so.
Afraid of burning, we dream of blue pebbles on concave foreheads
of blood and tears and mirrored adages fading out of our daughters’ existence.
Of lives not our own, not yet refractions of an else. of souls, of eyelashes, of intentions.
Zaynab Zaman is a third-year student at Georgetown Law School, and she enjoys painting, baking, and yoga.