Like the desert

 I am telling you that Mohamed,
my baby boy is dead—
an Israeli missile broke his fingers
and his heart flew
like a wounded butterfly,
too hurt to cry.
And I tell you about my country, 
rivers of fire,
shrapnel, and ambulances 
crumpled like paper
with my sisters underneath.
No exodus.
I will tend to my apron, my washing bowl,
but there is no food to serve.
My child is picking grains of rice,
as if they were spoonfuls.
They stole my food, water,
looted my school books, bedspread,
and dowry
smashed it, and filled their pockets with it.
They wanted their crimes to be felt,
they wore my clothes to pump
their barren chests,
 my precious memories—
my son's baby clothes—
and smashed them,
injecting the pieces
into their veins, addicted to murder.
They've blown up hospitals,
universities, fields, homes,
even the desert is  fading
like a nightdream,
then, gather the dust,
the shards of metal, stone,
flesh
and tailor their uniforms.
My lips are sealed with anger,
rage. I am so tired
of seeing 
their brutal grimace,
their  vocal cords are ropes
for the executioner, no beverage
can rapture their tongues
but,
we are
the liberators, the honourable,
the worthy, the salt of the earth,
the hands of peace,
the undertakers of children
who still cry at night—
the builders, the keepers of soil,
the women of peace
who waited patiently
pushing away
the bulldozer,
the missile,
the drone,
the soldier,
the settler
the iron mask,
the throne
of the murderer
Netanyahu