In memoriam: children of war

My mother in her nightgown melts into blackout night.
Her face swallowed by my father’s silhouette, the candle
flickering. Air raids sound like children falling from rooftops.
Our eyes, pinholes; our spines pulse to terror’s thump.

My mother’s face veiled by my father’s, the candle casts
two ghosts—no arms to hold, no hands to encircle.
Too dark to see me shiver. The wings of fear beat air.
I ask, If we’re killed, will our skulls rise from rubble?

Two ghosts—no arms or legs to reach into my corner,
my blackhole-planet, my stars decaying into dust.
Our skulls surface from rubble—moons I imagine.
Father says, They may rummage for our bones tomorrow.

In the blackhole-sky, stars collide with planes, with bombs.
My mother scolds, Hush! Don’t speak of death to a child!
Father asks, What is for breakfast— eggs or feta?
Pound. Pound. Pound. Then silence. A flame’s smoke.

My mother says, Let’s talk of flowers, trees, and birds.
We never name the monsters, fangs bared, glinting.
The blasts pound; the earth shakes, then spins again.
I say, Look there—the willows shaking off their birds.

Why speak of monsters when the door slit spills light?
My mother in her nightgown watches blackout night.
She mentions the willows scaring flocks of sparrows. 
We do not speak of rooftops, children falling in dark.