“We Teach Life, Sir.” – Rafeef Ziadah
"Do you have enough bone-broken limbs to cover the sun?"
From the Sky by Sara Abou Rashed
After Lorca
When I die,bury me in the sky—no one is fighting over it.
Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).
Teens are writing love letters
under an orange tree
(from the sky I can read them).
Soldiers are cocking new rifles
at the checkpoint
(from the sky I can hear them).
Under fire, death and water
are brewing in the kitchen
(from the sky I can smell them!).
When I die, bury me in the sky,
I said, for now, it is quiet—
no one owns it and no one is claiming to.
Oh Rascal Children Of Gaza- Khaled Juma
Oh rascal children of Gaza,
You who constantly disturbed me with your screams under my window,
You who filled every morning with rush and chaos,
You who broke my vase and stole the lonely flower on my balcony,
Come back –
And scream as you want,
And break all the vases,
Steal all the flowers,
Come back,
Just come back…
“Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying” – Noor Hindi
Colonizers write about flowers.
I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks
seconds before becoming daisies.
I want to be like those poets who care about the moon.
Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells
and prisons.
It’s so beautiful, the moon.
They’re so beautiful, the flowers.
I pick flowers for my dead father when I’m sad.
He watches Al Jazeera all day.
I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan.
I know I’m American because when I walk into a room
something dies.
Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts
care about sound.
When I die, I promise to haunt your forever.
One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.
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