Fallujah By Haemaru Chung


Like a corpse, unmoving,
I watch stars fizzle out,
dunes stir and shift.

Air is heavy, searing,
unlike the breeze
from home.

Ground is ragged, bitter,
unlike the velvet
of my lawn.

Rainbow after-images
stain my vision,
residue from dreams.

Early orange whispers
through the leaves,
my golden friend barks and stamps.

The house welcomes me
with open arms
despite creaking joints.

These memories bleed
into dust, their void
filled by silence.

Sand rushes past in fits,
scratching battered skin
and peeking bone.

Splayed at every angle,
buried by debris,
friends sleep around me.

Smoke breathes from our bodies.

By Haemaru Chung


A writer, violinist, photographer and athlete, Haemaru is currently a junior at a high school in New York City. His stories and poems have been recognized by the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Gannon University National High School Poetry Contest, Rider University Annual High School Writing Contest, Jack London Foundation Fiction Writing Contest, William Faulkner Wisdom Creative Writing Competition, among others. Other works have been published in many literary magazines, including The Round, Louisville Review, The Interlochen Review and The Apprentice Writer .

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