Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza

by Mosab Abu Toha

how big do you want our home to be i can continue to write poems until you are satisfied if you wish i can annex a neighboring planet or two

Dust tops off our tea, like latte foam.

Angels get hold of my infant niece.

In Gaza, some of us cannot completely die. Every time a bomb falls, every time shrapnel hits our graves, every time the rubble piles up on our heads, we are awakened from our temporary death.

Whenever she meets new people, she sinks her small hands into the pockets of her jeans, moves them as if she’s counting some coins. (She’s just lost seven fingers in the war.)

(The living room was no longer living.)

Dear teacher, did you know that after your burial, the Israelis killed five of your family in the cemetery? They didn’t like how you were buried, it seems, and hoped your family could improve with practice.

We dared not look behind and count them because what if they became less?

Why is it when I dream of Palestine, that I see it in black and white?