-for reem jafari.
when life is a baited trap, stuck
beside the river that swims to freedom.
she shoots hoops through loops, of broken rainbows.
the three-point line is now a virtual mirage,
made blurry by the squeaky intentions
of worn converse all-stars. the wall behind is proud,
emblazoned with the war cry of hamas, in red graffiti.
you push the ball forward
with olive oil fingers
and as it curls through the perils of gravity,
with no need to hurry, you start to worry
about your cousin who is being tortured.
you push the ball forward with olive oil fingers
and hope that when it drops inside the rusty hole
it will land on the flower that your heart has just planted.
it will crush that flower because a flower can only fester
without water and air and this camp has neither-
only hints of employment and shards of opportunity
where everyone is a neighbor
and everyone could be you.
she shoots hoops through loops, of broken rainbows.
the three-point line is slowly reincarnated
as your feet seek a bench to quietly escape.
your eyes are now telescopic buttons
searching for an intruding tank,
your neighbors must be inside by 8 o-clock sharp.
maybe there will be an nba tournament on the telly;
then, your olive oil fingers can reach out
for magic larry bird jordan and scottie p.
you can picture where most nba stars
came up (short):
a ghost-town ghetto block in the land of the free,
teenage cheeks sizzled by the hood
of an overseer's five.o,
poured saint ides on chalk outlines
when paying tribute to fallen martyrs,
teenage girls strung out on crack or dealt with pimps
with egos the size of sumo wrestlers.
seeing your nephew clock
or holding your cousin's loaded glock
but ain't no kinda bronx b-boy
or motown o.g. done seen
your hourly apocalypse:
houses bulldozed to dust relatives snatched
from their beds at midnite
waking up to the sight of babies crushed and father's missing
dodging sniper shots from cowardly nooks and crannies
missile launches into community centers checkpoints
that eat your pride up on the regular
9-1-1 is a joke and the red cross wagons
are like suckers with wheels.
the million and one humiliations
of a different, same kind of occupation.
if genocide is the goal
anyway
then is slow death just more
politically correct?
she shoots hoops through loops, of broken rainbows.
the wall behind is proud,
emblazoned with the war cry of hamas in red graffiti.
