Thursday Poem...

(A series of three related poems.)

Nakba

each time we strain to lift, or pull, or plow
we feel a burn beneath our knuckles,
deep pulsing aches and stabs within
the muscles and joints of our hands.

to find the source of our pain
we open our fists,
only to discover flakes of glass
embedded
beneath the skin of our palms.

we stand in circles
plucking at the shards,
rending our ancient flesh,
exhuming the splinters,
and spoiling our hands.

Intifadah

in so many of my lives
I have heard the music.
I am still young,
and this is not the worst of it.
bound in layers like sediment
I squint out from the rift
in these vestments
and marvel at my breath,
visible now, and thus – undeniable.

I hear the drumming distant,
like sticks across my father’s knee,
but rhythmic – and more.
some flutes or horns in high pitch –
some booted feet stepping where cars should be.
some horses topped by stoic drivers
ignoring with practiced ease the shits they leave behind.
to my side a child not so young as I,
gripping Glory by its convenient plastic handle –
swinging it in time
as these familiar apparitions pass.

Hudna

I stood silent along avenues
ancient and unmarked,
lending my ears to
unnatural sounds.
darling, you are staring me down.
this night has been decisive;
complete to the extent that
completion is possible –
to the extent that
conclusion is a real notion,
and not some mental aberration,
some rank, soul-less concept,
some excuse not to do more.
I am complicit and this I know.
I will forfeit this desire,
and give it back.
for far beyond forgetting
lies memory, waiting.