III.
People are asses. I hang bells from their necks so they can sing to me while I recline on a rock.
People are fools. I’ll hang them up in the wardrobe like winter clothes.
May’s barley is about to ripen. Each stalk has lined up its seeds in orderly fashion so ...
I.
I caught a glimpse of you as I ran. I had no time to stop and kiss your hand. The world was chasing me down like I was a thief and it was impossible for me to stop. If I had stopped I’d have been killed. But I caught a glimpse of you: your hand a stem of narcissus in a ...
My mother’s lessons are too late.After all we’ve lived through—the years she countsin precise concurrence with the Nakbaand the ones I count while I bite my tongue—she insists on lecturing me, word by word, all at once.She shows no consideration for my chronic ...
All is disordered in my usurped Bedouin memory.The young man who was electrocuted as he watered his fieldwas a potential groom for several little girls.His pores were potential lanterns in the dark after that charge of light.In all possibilities, memory betrays me.Was he a ...
Mahmoud could have been our son.I’d have objected to the nameand, for family reasons, you’d have insisted on it.We could have bought him a crib with a blue quiltand hung spinning musical animalsto coax him to sleep,could have stayed up all night for his first ...
I’ll write about a joy that invades Jenin from six directions,about children running while holding balloons in Am’ari Camp, about a fullness that quiets breastfeeding babies all night in Askar, about a little sea we can stroll up and down in Tulkarem,about eyes that stare ...
With ravenous eyesI devoured what others thought I was nourishing.This is how I overindulged,with glances thatare never returned.A few days ago the little one cried.She lifted her head to the sky,tears fell from her eyes,a sob filled her throat.In silence I watched,ignoring ...
The serenity I knowresides in my bones.I learned this through the most submissive actions.In the hand that greets,the foot that stands,and the shoulder that carries.Tell it like a storyor an anecdoteor a tragedy,it doesn’t matter.The story maker never becomes a strangerand ...
Look.Over there.The sea isn’t visible yet,though we’ve been driving for two hours.Though we’ve begun to feel its hot moist air.Though our clothes are sticking to our bodies.
In the car we eat grapes and don’t talk,as if the sweat oozing from our bodiesis how we ...
For several daysmy grandfather cried.In the end he admitted he was alone,as though he didn’t have seven sonswho had given him twenty-five grandchildren.
My grandmother at home,a basket of figs between her feet,is daydreaming as she carefully peelsand feeds them to my ...
He closes the door, turns off the lightsexcept the hallway’s which leads to the fenceand lets him peek at the bougainvillea
and the branches of the sweet apple he planted last winter. Inside his room one candleby the window will do.
A smokey candle and its ...