We die in tents

We die in tents
everyday,
no homes or bench to rest,
to overcome silence,
perform a deed,
to look for a missing
cat, for a stray dog,
or hold a child without fear.
Recounting our lives
is futile, our eardrums
are raw, hanging between
our fingers.
No food to prepare,
crops to water,
no family meals
where olive oil
scented our fingers,
alleviating, branding
the smell of Gaza.

We sit quietly
where laughter, the human 
voice, and pain
are blessed.
We die in tents
without illness—
no time for cancer
to engulf our bodies.

The blindness comes before.

No kidney transplants,
or blood transfusions,
only tents
 like rocks in the sea,
like a empty path, 
a line of sorrow and time.
as cemeteries grow
inhabiting the living
the tents won’t remember us,
as they disappear in a blizzard
of fire—
unlike the clothesline
in the sun,
waving like a human flag,
witnessing life.
Bury me in the soil,
let my family know
I died,
and when they gather
and bless my shroud,
my heart will breathe,
Like a fallen leaf, I will feed
new grapes, figs, lemons.

Only Palestinian soil
can hold my body, my name,
with care.