Because we named the land in blood and ink and everything held by the land to our use we named— dirty with the name— because we bought this land when ash became sky and the smell of burning drifted because my grandmother dreamed it instead of eating death and now new trees grow over the graves because the ruined promise because two pounds of shrapnel drawn from Noams back because Salim's house forced open like a jaw a bag of pita scattered where the kitchen was because we can survive in any soil like rats because until the end of the world we will scratch out the name
Letter to Arafat
In the rebuilt café where the bride exploded with the glass, we order cappuccino to sip with our cigarettes. Across the invisible line, only Arabic coffee. In Gaza they make rockets from lead pipe and nails. We say animals. Is a body worth a body? What if it has wept in the rain? Whispered the ninety-nine names of God and claimed one for itself. In the first light. Before morning.