It sounds like the air is getting sucked from the world 
and you are about to stop breathing. 
The plane threads itself into the sky,
sound dipping in and out. 
A small hope in a second of silence
snatched away by its roar 
like a lion inching closer to its prey.
You line your shoes by the door.
You close your eyes when the bomb drops 
to conjure up your grandmother’s peach tree,
and how she yelled at you for eating them
while they were still green,
the tangy flavor of unripe grapes,
your mother’s hand as it holds yours,
her finger rubbing your palm, 
the smell of fresh bread on Friday morning,
your brother’s stubbornness,
how beautiful it was to fight 
about small things, like how messy his room was. 
Now it might be turned into rubble. 
You hear the thud and know
it’s not your turn yet,
because when the bomb drops on you
you hear nothing.