-for reem jafari
walk my way, breathe in the scent of grapeknots,
and grab a palmful of hoary mist, fish-kissed,
early as it is, and the grotto starts to reveal
why you wanted nobody
to dare enter.
you came all this way, from ramallah,
to make the weedless, cocky cobblestones
understand that you deserve to be free,
deserve to watch the fisher-boats sway elegantly,
like tango dancers, forward, then back,
meeting each other's prancing bows for eyes
and hoping to be laden down with sardines.
back home,
you have been whored by war
and sold out by salvation.
villages even older than the first copy of the koran
are reduced, in an instant, to mere details
in a persistent occupation. the children here
look like they wake up
to so much more than you,
their joy is as real
as the sun's easy flirtation.
most of all, your arms:
bent, muscled, making ripples
to cleave the deep, cold, cerulean pool.
and, an eighth of a world away,
your daughter's backpack is being checked,
for bombs, on the way to school.
