His name

 I’ve got his death certificate.
I’ll keep it.
I don't want you to tell me one day
that he didn’t exist,
that I didn’t have a son
named Mohamed,
that I invented him
between missile and missile,
between blood and flesh.
I’ll keep it.
Stamped, dated, timed—
when an Israeli drone
turned him into a signed piece of paper,
into a grave with barely a body.
I'll keep the paper well-folded,
tenderness and fury,
like his gaze,
the  gaze of a child.
You cannot tell me
that it was all a nightmare,
a dilemma, a childhood trauma,
the stuff of war,
of a genocide.
My son was cloud and earth,
promise and guardian.
He came from laughter.
My chest and his father’s
were hills and sand
that cradled him
like a lullaby,
like the swaying
of a newborn.
I held him so close that my hands
had merged with his belly
and his chest.
I’ll keep the death certificate
so you know that my son
lived eight months,
that he played with his siblings,
that I held him in my arms.
This paper is pain and memory,
a testimony:
my son is awaiting
the day of Justice,
when his name will be spoken:
Mohamed Ammar Al-Masri