by Matthew Murrey
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Some nights I think, “What a wretched day. Tomorrow has to be better.” In the morning I ride that hope. How it lifts up from this bitter earth. Maybe food will get through. Maybe safe walls will shelter the terrified and displaced. Maybe missiles will stay stowed in their crates. How it leaves the ground. How wide the wingspan is. How I watch knowing this —like so much captured footage these days— does not end well. It climbs, then does not. Nose up, it goes down, more glide than plunge, until it disappears among low buildings on the ground. A huge billow of fire and black smoke tells me more than I want to know.
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Matthew Murrey is the author of Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019) and the forthcoming collection Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026). Recent poems are in Dissident Voice, One, Anthropocene, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for more than 20 years and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Bluesky and Instagram under the handle @mytwords.
A powerful piece about more than this one terrible incident.