Boy, in Gaza

To witness a stone, follow its destiny, its parabolic arc of covenant –
it seemed such a natural thing to do.

When my father and Uncle were young, he and Uncle would leave for work
at four in the morning to lay cinderblock for the settlements and supermarkets

But that has all stopped now
only the sea gives us fish.

Only our mother still makes us wash our hands

When I was a boy in Gaza, I used to stare
through the high fence, across its serpentine
tentacles of tangled barbed wire –
The Israelis drinking Nescafe and playing shesbesh on their tanks

What separated us was an orange grove and mounds of fresh dirt
like hills for empty graves.

I learned a few words in Hebrew by listening and I taught an Israeli
how to read and say the word delicious in Arabic: ladhidh

After I returned home from university – they replaced the fence
with a massive wall and we could no longer see the mirrors in our faces

Only the sea to our backs is without a visible barrier
Only the sea does not watch us with cameras and drones
and hovering gunships.

We used to dig tunnels under it all – though the Israelis
hear our chewing, however delicate or deep we nibble our earth
We sent them luminous balloons, sunflowers
from the moon and they cut off all shipments of food

I lied.
I never went to university
I did go to prison for throwing rocks –
to witness a stone, follow its destiny,
its parabolic arc of covenant

              – it seemed such a natural thing to do

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