Dr. Maisara Al Rayyes

. . .is dead.

His brothers’ bodies follow him.
Three more joined in the stillness
after shrapnel flays flesh, live fire rages.
A photo bleed washes the screen:
stilled babies, crushed by ancestral chance,
lie wrapped in winding cloth, readied for earth
as death flows like a bankless river
through each choking street.
Red brick dust coats hospital doors
that hang askew, seeking the life savers
who could not save themselves.
Moayd. Maisara. Mohammed.
Each boy, one mother’s son.
Newsprint images pin children’s butterfly bodies
to a spreading board called Gaza
where the wings of all that’s possible
are plucked by those who turn the truth away
while new bombs carve ghost faces
and mothers keen the pangs of each new day.
Destruction spreads in piled rubble
that human eyes choose to ignore.
At evening, listen carefully, siblings
of the dead keen the lyrics of sorrow
in the vacuum each new morning brings.
They stand to voice the mourning songs
destined for rebirth with every rising sun.

Precipice

Strange earth, how can you turn like yesterday?
White men claim nothing’s changed, yet all is changed.
Mouths mumble as democracy expires, and slick
words raise empires truth cannot breach.
Rich men claim nothing’s moved, nothing’s deranged.
We nod and drift as fiction murders fact
dissent can’t scale gray walls, mammoth in breadth.
Incendiary claims flame mobs, blood red
freedom expires, the wealthy feather nests
their man who would be king performs his act
tribes mass in hoards, discard the weighty past
freedom retires, oligarchs place fixed bets
still, earth revolves, night still gives way to day
somewhere beyond the daunting razor wire
rise those who will breathe free of fascist fire

Certain

Wear mourning weeds, silk-thin and winter white;
toss funeral herbs to green your muddy grave.
They say we die three times. You’ve managed twice.
Your sons ward off the third and speak your name.

Tossed funeral herbs to green your muddy grave.
I’ve filled Ball jars with words that overflow
from all those still alive who speak your name.
Each hour yellows, flakes, dissolves like snow.

I’ve filled Ball jars with words that overflow.
Wore mourning weeds, silk-thin and winter white
but language yellows, too; day turns to night.
They say you die three times, and now I know
the third’s when lovers die who spoke our names.


“There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.”

— David M. Eagleman

Joani Reese is a poetry and flash fiction writer who lives and works as an educator in Texas. Reese has had work published in over 70 online and print journals. She has a hybrid poetry/flash fiction full length book, Night Chorus, and two chapbooks, Dead Letters and Final Notes. Reese has been poetry editor for Connotation Press, THIS Literary Magazine, and general editor for MadHat Lit.