Missiles aren’t meant to cross a moon this beautiful.
A sky like this was made for wishes, not war.

Last June
I counted one deadly streak across the sky per firing.
Now they come in clusters.
Engineered for grief.
Over my house.
Over my life.

After the booms
there is only the sky and me,
both holding our breath,
watching the night’s beauty refuse to flinch.

My body remembers
the pressure before the sound.
Learned slowly over the years,
the bracing answers instantly.

They say it’s the Purim story repeating itself,
as if recognition should soften the impact,
as if the roles were still meant to suffice.
I am not Esther.
But I am part of the retelling.

Now freedom is spoken in explosions,
with bodies asked to carry the cost.
And wanting an ending to it all
doesn’t change
where I am standing.