Wraith, I drift now through the grasses that grow
Tall on the blood of my friends, and endow
Field-flowers with their names.

Wraith, I drift now through the grasses that grow
Tall on the blood of my friends, and endow
Field-flowers with their names.

I haunt you, dragon, but I don’t quite know
Why. At fifteen, they gave me a crossbow,
At sixteen, I was dead.

---

Hibah Shabkhez is a writer and photographer from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Arc Poetry, Meniscus, Thimble, Harpur Palate, Frogmore Papers, Potomac Review, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.

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