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All is disordered in my usurped Bedouin memory.
The young man who was electrocuted as he watered his field
was 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 groom or a deferred lantern or a green field?
My mother has a habit of squaring every detail in my memories.
The young man became a field, the green a lantern,
and electricity never once reached my village.



Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.