Surface oil makes rainbows.
Im looking through still waters.
Having my child felt like
being crushed from inside.
I would dress in perfumes that mix
with oil and my bare skin and
I long for him.
Can we try again to recreate our son,
born at the checkpoint,
who crumbled in my lap as his blood
absorbed into stone dust;
our house
before D-11 Caterpillar bulldozers
crushed another 30 homes.
If he were still here, I would ask.
But three walls are missing and I sleep on the floor
near the dismantled hospital;
bullet holes in the scale that weighed our newly born,
in the sign "Care of Pregnant Women",
in the chest of my one year old.
After our hearts have exploded,
my breasts, red as volcanoes, engorged,
and smoke stacks pull agony up
out of Jenin; the last memory I have
after our door falls open and
their tanks fire. I wondered for days,
What do I do with this milk?,
blinking away smoke, soot and rubble,
facing graffiti in English that I could barely read
that said, "Occupation is the real terrorism", and I
felt less alone.
Last update : 29-12-2005 16:04
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