By my dear friend Bassemah

Palestine

A tree with scaly branches was

born in me and

my country change

her name and people.

They wear icicles on their tongues,

our replacements.

I saw them pierce my mother’s breast

every time she remembered.

And when I tell them where

I am from

I see the ice fly from their lips

and their laughter at my back.

En masse the hearts rot to black

theirs and ours.

The streets they smirk at my heels,

the ones

my great-grandfather built.

Now they smirk at his grave.

The color of forgetful eyes

is false.

Oppressed becomes oppressor.

And those unheard will be forgotten soon.

These biting thorns have shaped a land

where once olive groves

dug deep into the sand.

Bassemah

Fall 1996-Chicago