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You were so small in my hands
no shrapnel could hit you,
but the dust and
smoke of the bomb
rushed into your lungs.
No need for any gauze.
They just closed your eyes.
No need for any shroud.
You were already
in your swaddle blanket.
Copyright © 2025 by Mosab Abu Toha. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 13, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
Gaza has become a funeral home,
but there are no seats,
no mourners, no bodies.
In the caskets are nothing but
what remained of the dead’s clothes,
and on the crumbling walls are clocks
that have not moved for fourteen months.
We are fine, even though we don’t feel well.
Gaza is okay, although it has nothing to make her feel that way.
In Gaza, the sun shines and the moon flirts with the leaves of the orange trees;
However, Gaza’s people come and go empty-handed:
No good news to give to their children,
no candy to sweeten their pale mouths,
When I left, I left my childhood in the drawer
and on the kitchen table. I left my toy horse
in its plastic bag.
I left without looking at the clock.
I forget whether it was noon or evening.
Our horse spent the night alone,
no water, no grains for dinner.