At night, thinking of places:

Armenia, 1915. Nanjing,
1937. Palestine, 1947—

As if a man leans into your ear,
apologetic: I can’t do this another way.

As if he’s making up for it:
Let me show you how to survive the next war,

then unrolling a map,
tracing the exit routes.

You know you’d try them all:
those unlocked doors, unlit alleys,

sneaking in and out, sleeping on the laundry
across someone’s sofa.

One day the map will disappear
as you will grow tall.

And the man will return,
scratching his head:

My name is History. I checked.
You won’t survive the next war.