today is not a poem
woke up feeling guilty for resting my head on the pillow
as gaza laid her children to rest
i remember their faces
their names scattered in a sea of stars and survivors
they came to me in my sleep last night
pleading:
we are hurting
we are afraid
we are tired
today is not a holiday
donned my mother’s taub and keffiyeh on my shoulders
as haifa and ‘akkā wrapped white linen
around the limbs of lynched bodies
to contain what’s left in the lasting rupture
between flesh and blood,
still warm
between occupied and occupier
between past and present
or rather,
between what was and what has become
today is not a celebration
spoke with my uncle
prayed for his safety before wishing him eid mubarak
told me that death came knocking
but fled as soon as it arrived
he reminded me of memories we once shared
as if nostalgia can somehow erase the goodbyes in his voice
i wanted to say i love you
but couldn’t find the words
instead, i said:
i miss you amu
please take care amu
we will be reunited again someday inshallah
amu
what’s the equivalent translation of love
for a people that have a long-lasting affair
with poets and hopeless romantics
anyway?
i read somewhere once
that when a body carries a trauma
not yet metabolized
it learns that to love bares an attachment
not ready for loss
catches on the tongue
slicing it in half
twisted,
i’m sorry for not being better when i had the chance
today is not a feast
ate kahk that tasted bitter
as our fingertips
curious and penetrating,
scrolled through our news feeds
sprinkled powdered sugar
until it resembled the tops of snow-capped mountains
purged guilt and bile and confessions of an exiled mind
digesting the pleasure of sweetness
is a privilege my body cannot seem to bear
today is not a ceasefire
it is a liberation movement, uninterrupted
sheikh jarrah was once every city’s worst nightmare
resistance is greater than this iron fist
it also looks like jerusalem
she was dancing colours and patterns
children twirling in laughter and joyful bliss
all around her
a defiant hum
something like a hopeful melody
sung
from the tops of the minaret speakers
of al aqsa:
we are an uprising,
multiplied
we are an exodus,
returning
we are an ode to the people,
singular and united
we will never leave
we are here to stay
we are here
we are
we. are.
lh
may 2021
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