Dysmorphism

Dysmorphism Where is the space to source her empty, homeless flesh Up at distorted arms with consciousness of void That circles, like undaunted Jericho, this home Because a single voice tells her it must be so Among the shrieks and howls of those who won't make room, Above the wordless keening of forgotten hours? Refugee fragments argue over scraps of truth Because no part of her has claimed a simple space To harbor at last the dimensions of her self.