A Poem by Sandra Kohler

Cold and another storm

coming, the weather liminal,

littoral. I dream of shores

and memory, of my sister

suddenly more herself,

remembering. Re-member.

Re-embody. Reincarnate

the body of the past.

Bodies are precious.

The Syrian child, a girl,

on the front page of this

morning’s Times, come

home from school to find

no home. Her house razed,

nothing is said about her

family: where were they,

were they killed, does she

have a family living,

a living family?

She is pale, stunned, her

eyes empty. Her shawls,

bead necklace look like

those my five year old

granddaugher, Katie,

would wear, an array

mirroring a fey


Katie, who yesterday

comes down alone to

our rooms, assuming an

independence new to her,

fragile but precious, to

visit her plants, which

I’ve kept safe here from

the predations of

her little dog.

I can keep those

plants safe. They

are not children.

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