Tora Bora is not what the girl had imagined. Late fall, the elds

are cropped to stubble, the Himalayas already rust and smoke. The trees

must have flamed here from drone strikes but she’s

too late. The mujahideen have threaded themselves 

through the passes on their best

Arabian horses, and a hawk has dropped

its shadow on a Afghan girl and won’t

lift it away. The girl is learning to read

the world, and every turned page reveals something peculiar, wholly new.

In the story of the Tora Bora, the trees burn for as long as they can bear it,

the horizon blurs and wobbles like a heat mirage. The girl

doesn’t know how her story ends. Like the ideology, it has a shape,

but she’s too close to see it whole.