I want to do tonight the five poems I wrote during what I now always call in my head a Yam Raze. I worked really hard on these poems on the page because I wanted them to be able to go anywhere. I wanted the craft and the language to be so tight that even the rhythm couldn't stop them from seeing what I was saying. And after I finished every poem, each poem decided to name itself after a city in Raze. I wouldn't have chosen that. I was not that brave. But the poems did for themselves. There's five of them and I'm going to read them back to back. Very humbly. This is Raze. A great miracle happened here. A festival of lights. A casting of lead upon children. An army feasting on epiphany. I know nothing under the sun over the wall no one mentions. Some must die wrapped in floral petroleum blanket, no coverage. I have come to every day Armageddon, a ladder left unattended. Six candles burned down a house, a horse tied to smoke. Some must die to send a signal. Flatline scream, livestream, river, a memory longer than life spans. The living want to die in their country. No open doors, no open seas, no open hands full of hard five daughters wrapped in white. Each day she had, each day faith over fear, each day a mirror, a fire. The living want to die with their families. The girl loses limbs, her brother gathers arms. Some must die for not dying. Children on hospital floor, mother beside them the father in shock. This is my family. I have failed them. This is my family. I did not raise their heads. I have buried them, my family. What will I do now? My family is bread, one fish, one people cut into pieces. There is a thirst thefts life. There is a hunger, a winter within winter. Some must die to bring salvation. I have come to end times always present. The woman lost parents, her children, and screams, my sister. I have lost my sister. I want to die. My sister's eyes were honey, her voice, mine, I can't face this. Only God, only God, my sister, mehdx killed, schools hit. Convoys bombed. The injured are dying. The dead are buried in three hours. The people pray together and curse. The people mourn loud and quiet. Always too loud, not enough. Some must die because they are the vicinity. Some must die because it was written. No, army does not apologize. Has never apologized. Authority, chases, paper, assembly, occupation, settles deeper. A great miracle here. The living are dying. And the dying living. A festival of lights. A strip, a land, a blaze. The sea, a mirror, a fire. The casting of lead-upon children. Their heads roll off their shoulders into streets. Their tops spin in hands. An army feasting on epiphany, driving future into history, carrying torches into women.