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.