A.Z. Foreman

Omar in Gaza Scrolls through his Feed

He scrolls. A glen in Scotland: moss and mist,
a stag knee-deep in silence, sky like pewter.
His thumb shakes. Here the morning has just hissed
with drones then blood. This screen is always truer
than rubble. There, no sirens. Just a fern
curling from stone. Just light. No checkpoint. Wall.
The sheep don't flinch. The mountains do not burn.
His breath turns glassy. Then he feels it fall—

a thought: was this the crime? to be born here?
To wake where gods are made of wire and smoke?
To live and die and never once come near
a world that isn't broken, starved, or choked?
The Highlands gleam, untouched, beyond the shrapnel.
He stares. And weeps. And doesn't drop the panel.

A. Z. Foreman is a linguist, poet, short story author and/or translator pursuing a doctorate at the Ohio State University. His work has been featured in the Threepenny Review, ANMLY, Rattle, the Los Angeles Review and elsewhere including two people's tattoos but not yet the Starfleet Academy Quarterly or Tattooine Monthly. He writes from the edge of thought between sleep and waking. He wants to pet your dog.