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Tanks roll through dust, through eggplant fields.
No need for radio: We are the news.
At fifth grade, I visit the school library. On a wall by the door, a poster claims, “If you read books, you live more than one life.” Now I’m thirty and whenever I look at faces around me, old or young, on each forehead I read: “If you live in Gaza, you die several times.”
stones of house after explosion get amnesia some forget they were in a wall in a bedroom or a kitchen or a bathroom some in a ceiling some forget they sat behind photo frames for years a few stones [forget] they were stones
upon birth, mask up your children and leave them unnamed so the angel of death can’t find them
Our lives freeze somewhere in between, confused where to head next: a graveyard, a hospital, a nightmare.
Sir, we are not welcome anywhere. Only cemeteries don’t mind our bodies. We no longer look for Palestine. Our time is spent dying. Soon, Palestine will search for us, for our whispers, for our footsteps, our fading pictures fallen off blown-up walls.
Will my bones find yours after I die?
The scars on our children’s faces will look for you. Our children’s amputated legs will run after you.
