THE ONLY BARS ACROSS MY WINDOW I CAN SEE
to my lynched great uncle Silas Hoskins, one day we will name a green, lush garden after you
the only bars across
my window I can see –
vibrant and summery,
criss crossing the sky –
are strands of cobweb
sparkling in the sunshine,
hanging vine
and
just beyond
bursting boughs of pine
backdropped
by oak canopy
but even though
i can open the window
though i can feel the touch of grassy dew
and without further ado
open the door to walk through
so much of this garden’s greenery –
my life remains barred
my memory scarred
the deed to my native home charred
it’s owner, my ancestor, long tarred
and i am not free
(c) Julia Wright June 19, 2026. All Rights Reserved.
THE WAR-PROOF HOME OF POETRY
where are you where are you
little child
the child who wandered
free
the child who played
without guilt
the child who had no care
in the whole wide world
the child who laughed
as she breathed
the child who did not know
the fear of war
or
that the monsters
that hid under her bed
could be men –
the child that was before
the child caught in time
in that photo
in a frilly pinafore?
where are you?
sometimes
especially in the daytime
i think i have lost you …
yet
i do not remember
there being any funeral
for the child of yesterday
no cremation of her dreams
no burial of the sunbeams
she effortlessly juggled
back in the day
and
at night
that child rises dancing
to the surface of my sleep
and lets me know
she is still alive and happy
thanks to my protection
and that
i can rebuild a safe home
for her
with the stones
no huffing and puffing wolf
no assaulting infantry
can blow away –
the bricks of my poetry
(c) Julia Wright. June 21, 2026. All Rights Reserved.
THE DEATH OF A POEM
schools and their
tight-haired marms
and all the pundits of academia
have taught us
a poem
worthy of the name
is an exquisitely cut
diamond
a diamond
is a poet’s
best friend
by extension
and rule of thumb
the best of poems
rhymes gracefully
aliterates astutely
and always moves
the aesthetics-seeking reader
with its impeccable
symmetry
it must be
a gem
perfect
and polished
and pristine
and stamped
as ready to be consumed
or don’t bother
with the thing
after all
it might be
dangerous contraband
but this poem
is an unnamed jellyfish
found dying along
the shores of washed-up compassion –
shapeless
unfinished gasps of stanza
in arrhythmia
trying to get its transparency back
to the water
of understanding
and sinking
into moonless quicksand –
unprotected
agonal
out of breath of grammar – but not of love
unread
blood-red penciled
even on its deathbed
(c) Julia Wright June 24, 2026. All Rights Reserved.
ROBOTS ARE TAUGHT THE MINDLESSNESS OF GENOCIDE
Israelis now hold mass yoga sessions
to heal from PTSD
or rather Ongoing Trauma Syndrome Disorder
for committing genocide –
and, yes, we see them
in real time
trying
to appease their hubris
with flailing arms
and hollow eyes
grounding their bare feet
in the dust of Palestinian bones
stretching their limbs
on the sacred land they stole
and
turned into mass graves
and we remember back
to twenty twenty-three
when following the lynching of Raynard Brooks
and our upheavals against Cop City,
police officers
near Atlanta
feeling unpopular and criticized
stayed at home with the Blue Flu
and
as consolation
were offered for the first time in Georgia
within the sanctuary of a police precinct
a zen den
zero gravity massage chairs
a sound immersion system
essential oils and dimmable lights
after the ordeal and exhaustion
of committing the torture techniques
perfected during police training exchange programs
with the same Israeli officers
yoga and zen
or incense-scented decompression rooms
will not be needed
for long
since robots and AI missiles
are taught
the mindlessness of genocide
committed
anywhere
the speed of imperialist thought
decides to fly
(c) Julia Wright June 25, 2026. All Rights Reserved to Susan Abulhawa’s playgroundsforpalestine.org, to the Steering Committee of the Global Sumud Flotilla and to what remains of the family of the assassinated poet and educator, Refaat Alareer
