On the Thirtieth Friday We Consider Plurals

At the border, a flock of journalists. 

A sacrifice of tires burned behind us. 

Beneath the picnic tents, a funeral of families. 

What else will we become in Gaza if we gather, 

if we carry our voices to the razored edge? 

We were met by a gallop of prayers, 

clamoring recitatives puncturing the shroud

of humid air. We were met by a delirium



of greetings, peace-be-upon-us surreal 

between embraces, the horizon locked 

and loaded. What is upon us 

will require mercy. Let the plural be

a return of us. A carnage of blessings—

bodies freed from broken promises, 

from the incumbrances of waiting.