But Every Time I Start


An airstrike hits a tent in Gaza,
turning a whole family
into scattered limbs and blood.
A young boy is mauled by police dogs in Jenin.
A young man is crushed by a military vehicle in Ramallah.
A young girl is struck by a settler’s car in Nablus.
Ancient olive trees
are massacred by settlers all over the West Bank.

I want to write about the smell of the sea breeze,
the color of trees after rain,
a pigeon landing on the balcony rail,
I want to describe the sky on a cloudy day,
tell a story about crows and palm trees,
or just the raindrops falling gently
on my notebook.

But every time I start,
black smoke slips into the words,
and blood fills the page.

I want to write about the sound of the yellow leaves
blown by the wind,
about the waves playing with the sand,
about the laughter of children on swings,
but all I can hear is
women crying over their children,
fathers hugging corpses and screaming their lungs out,
children wailing over their parents
who will never come back.

I want to write about the beauty of the moonlight
slipping through a cloud,
but all I see is men running under gunfire to get aid,
fishermen in boats being shot at,
young bodies carried on shoulders
over and over again.

I do want to be “Zen” like Mary Oliver,
but every time I start,
I see blood dripping all over the map around my neck
from 1948 until now.
I see a very old genocide

kept young.

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