Pomegranates

For the children of Gaza

The night is a burial shroud.
Even the stars have withdrawn their light. 

The souls of children who have been erased
hover in the olive groves until the wind comes
and sweeps their echo away.

We want to live.

Still, bombs keep falling. The songbirds have all scattered 
while those without wings huddle together in the dark 
murmuring prayers. No one comes for them. 
Without bread or medicine. 
Among the living, they are already forgotten. 

Still, the cedar trees remember.
The myrtle and hawthorn remember.
The earth soaked in blood remembers.
The flowering thyme, the smooth ancient stones,
the blue cradle of the sea.

Remember. 

Here, half a world away, 
it is leaves that are falling. Only leaves.
The hush of the newly dead, unable to find their voice.
So many thousands of children. 

Because I cannot give them warm goat milk 
or soothe their bruised limbs with herbs 
or gather them close to my breathing body; because 
they can no longer taste the honeycomb left as a parting gift 
by the wild bees nor taste the last of the ripe figs heavy 
in my open palms; because each one has had their body 
stolen from them. Because of this. 
I scratch around in the dirt for words. 

They only want to live. 

Yet, one by one by one,
their unspoken names merge back 
into the fathomless heartbeat of the World — 
their true names which cannot be taken from them. 

Stunned by images of horror, I turn off the screen.
I move as if underwater, summoning rain. 
Thunderous rain. Rain to flood the deaf chambers 
of nations. Rain to drown out the din of ideologues and zealots. 
A torrent of tears to cleanse and carry us to a promise land, 
a homeland without militarized borders or drones.
Fertile valleys without war. 

A Promised Land. 

Where innocence blooms through us, 
the sweet scent of almond blossoms. 
Petals falling on mass graves. Only petals. 
A holy land. Where we can begin again. 

Where the ones with ashen tongues bow down to the river 
to wash the stain of centuries from their cracked hands
and seeing their own reflection, as if for the first time, 
soften and recognize themselves as human again. 

Where offerings are made 
to heal the deep wounds of the past. 
Syllables braided into song. 

Where the ancestors, who were children once, dance. 
Where doves return to nest in the branches 
and the olive harvest is shared in peace. 

The Promised Land. 
A Holy Land. 

Yet, half a world away, dawn arrives without promises. 
I walk barefoot on cold ground out into the orchard.
Grief for all that has been lost hanging stark 
as pomegranates split open against a grey sky.

We want to live 


November 17th, 2023

A dove amidst the debris of homes destroyed by Israeli air strikes in Southern Gaza. 11 October, 2023

Photo credit: Reuters/Ibrahim Abu Mustafa