My chest is bruised; my face is black and worn this morning. As a Palestinian, Israeli Independence Day is mourning. Why did my swollen eyes awake so early?
These Muslim fingertips stick to the sheets, sink deep as bricks. No one plays the anthem this dark, but if you listen to the bricks you can discern some pride song as they fly from Muslim fists.
At noon, the sun invades my skin as I sneak about Jerusalem. A guard lodges his gun in my ribs: Why you sneak? Trying not to get shot in my city.
I hold Sabbath in Starbucks-no poems today-suck on lattes. New shipments arrive that say-sip the bitter latte- bombs blister outside, semi-cremated women crawl to safety-made in U.S.A.
At night, for many seconds, it is silent; I sway as if rapt for rain. As does the house in its way of collecting shrapnel echoes and distant prayers beseeching another blessing, another moment of silent prayer.