Jenin

Jenin is
a squalid city of poverty
where the bombs fall
like unwanted seeds
that rupture opens the lungs
of children, the aged
the youth.
I came seventy years ago,
naked of hope, tears kept in my
pocket, inside my shirt
gasping for air,
building my house of mud,
elevating it in the desert,
a home raised on time, thyme
and anger.
My son was shot dead
his face held secrets
shouted at the top of his voice;
wars lasting until the memory fades
cannot be won.

A squalid city of...
a squalid city of poverty
made of olive trees and faith.
Who took your spices and
disperse them amongst the dirt?
who closed your schools and left
the children playing amongst twisted pieces of
shrapnel?
Drones do not wither, tire or
drive to a halt, rare birds with no real
songs, but a roar, a hum, a howl

I am not folding down my flag,
and walk down the road to another exile.
Palestine is warming my feet.

Jenin where
the sleep is light,
and the wall crumbles so easily when
the giant bulldozer pounces at night,
at the dinner table where
food is strong and merciful.

Broadcast the male choir of men in the morgue
and feel the uneasiness, the fear of furore
Death in the West is quiet, under morphine
old age, disease atone
Not in Jenin where a single blow decides
your end

Do Israeli citizens know where the morgues
are in the West Bank?
Do the Israeli citizens see the crippled ambulances
tearing the injured away from the dead,
the children beneath the soil
like mangled flowers,
with dislocated stems,
Paramedics with holes in their hearts,
and steady hands.
Jenin is not a squalid city of poverty
but a fertile land.