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  They had already paid his fees.

  I asked a rabbi demonstrating against us

  if his people could imagine our sorrows.

  Could they just hold their own thoughts for a moment

  and imagine what we feel like?

  He was quiet, staring at me.

  I made a rabbi quiet.

  Could he imagine the pain of the boy Ahmad Dawabsha,

  only survivor of his family terribly burned

  when the settlers threw a Molotov cocktail into

  his house? No more mother, father, baby brother,

  Ahmad, once the most beautiful little boy you can imagine,

  Ahmad, now alone with sorrow and scars and pain,

  wrapping his wounds. And this is what

  the rabbi said: I don’t know. I don’t know

  if we can imagine it.

  And that is the problem.

  Gratitude List

  Thank you for insulting me.

  You helped me see how much I was worth.

  Thank you for overlooking my humanity.

  In that moment I gained power.

  To be forgotten by the wider world

  and the righteous religious

  and the weaponized soldiers

  is not the worst thing.

  It gives you time to discover yourself.

  *

  Lemons.

  Mint.

  Almonds roasted and salted.

  Almonds raw.

  Pistachios roasted and salted.

  Cheese.

  It Was or It Wasn’t

  Arabic fairy tales begin this way,

  so do Arabic days.

  A pantry is empty

  but Mama still produces a tray of tea and cookies

  for the guest.

  West is still the way we stare—

  knowing there’s blue space and free water

  over there. There’s a Palestinian and a Jew

  building a synagogue together in Arkansas.

  They’re friends, with respect.

  Actually our water

  isn’t free either

  nor are the fish my friends in Gaza

  aren’t allowed to catch.

  It was or it wasn’t a democracy,

  a haven

  for human beings,

  but only some of them.

  You can’t do that with people,

  pretend they aren’t there.

  It was or it wasn’t a crowd.

  Diploma, marriage, legacy,

  babies being born,

  children being killed,

  it was or it wasn’t going to work out.

  Gaza Is Not Far Away

  (Dr. Luke Peterson)

  1.

  It’s in your cuffs.

  The cup you just drank from.

  Empty bucket outside back door with an inch of rain in it.

  Sack of mulch to scatter on your winter beds.

  Do you see these things as luxury?

  It’s the crosswalk kids march in.

  Mama with her yellow belt

  waving them through. It’s rules.

  It’s everything you keep a long time

  in your refrigerator—pickles, tonic, apple butter.

  Butter. The fact you have a refrigerator

  and power to run it all day long.

  Gaza might like that.

  2.

  The world’s largest open-air prison keeps ticking day to day—

  alarm clocks, kindergartens, spinach mixed into eggs,

  little blue backpacks for kids,

  a few filtered-water fountains, plastic bottles carried home,

  and no, they can’t go swimming, can’t fish in their own sea,

  can’t fly from their airport, can’t visit the so-called Holy City,

  can’t do anything, basically, except be human, be humane.

  They can go to the Book Club and read books.

  And people far away won’t turn their heads to see

  what Gaza is doing or how well they are doing it.

  Or how hard it is.

  Even when 500 people die from bombs they supplied.

  They won’t cry because the dead ones weren’t someone

  they knew and loved. Like the person sitting next to them

  on the couch.

  My Wisdom

  When people have a lot

  they want more

  When people have nothing

  they will happily share it

  *

  Some people say

  never getting your way

  builds character

  By now our character must be

  deep and wide as a continent

  Africa, Australia

  giant cascade of stars

  spilling over our huge night

  *

  Where did the power go?

  Did it enjoy its break?

  Is power exhausted?

  What is real power?

  Who really has power?

  Did the generator break?

  Do we imagine silence

  more powerful because

  it might contain everything?

  Quiet always lives

  inside noise.

  But does it get much done?

  *

  Silence waits

  for truth to break it

  *

  Calendars can weep too

  They want us to have better days

  *

  Welcome to every minute

  Feel lucky you’re still in it

  *

  No bird builds a wall

  *

  Sky purse

  jingling

  change

  *

  Won’t give up

  our hopes

  for anything!

  *

  Not your fault

  You didn’t make the world

  *

  How dare this go on and on?

  cried the person who believed in praying

  God willing God willing God willing

  There were others who prayed

  to ruins & stumps

  *

  Open palms

  hold more

  *

  Refuse to give

  mistakes

  too much power

  *

  Annoying person?

  Person who told me to stay home

  and do what other girls do?

  If you disappeared

  I still might miss you

  *

  Babies want to help us

  They laugh

  for no reason

  *

  Pay close attention to

  a drop of water

  on the kitchen table

  *

  You cannot say one word about religion

  and exclude Ahmad

  Each Day We Are Given So Many Gifts

  I did it

  I made friends with a fly

  Yawn a little pause

  relighting breath

  Blink a break

  from sun’s sharp gaze

  Yesterday evening after rain

  the world tiled rosy

  such a brief slip of minutes

  as if someone got her wish

  we could live in pink  hold a shining note

  release  someone else’s anger

  Jerusalem

  Not your city—

  everyone’s city.

  Not my city—

  everyone’s city.

  City of time—

  holding time.

  Deeper than time.

  Time’s true city.

  Missing It

  Our cousin Sami said at night when he can’t sleep

  he thinks about everything he missed that day.

  Which way didn’t he turn his head?

  Whose face didn’t he notice?

  He gets the answer to the problem he missed

  on the test. He fin
ally remembers where they buried

  the one cat who sat in anyone’s lap.

  A Person in Northern Ireland

  Sends me a message with a quote

  from Rainer Maria Rilke, a German poet:

  “And now let us believe

  in a long year that is given to us, new, untouched, full of

  things that have never been.”

  That’s sort of what I’m afraid of.

  38 Billion

  It’s hard to grasp very big numbers and distant concepts.

  Like imagining what all our thoughts might have been

  if we lived 300 years ago. Would they be centered

  on a goat or six rocks piled together

  or would they be wide as they are now?

  In those long-ago days,

  would people be meaner to one another

  or nicer? I have no idea. But sometimes I wonder what

  38 billion dollars could buy, instead of weapons aimed

  against us and this is what comes to mind:

  Eggs. Pencils. Undershirts of very soft cotton.

  Ribbons. Radios. Shining flashlights.

  Handmade clay plates. Chocolates. Really soft pillows.

  Baskets. Bracelets. Running shoes.

  Better Vision

  In Ramallah, optical stores polish their glittering windows

  and wait patiently, stocking shiny displays,

  curatives for nearsighted, farsighted, astigmatism,

  too much sun. My mother’s eye swells from allergy.

  Mabrook! to ourselves in the round mirrors

  when suddenly the world looks sharper.

  Or Tikkun Olam, as our Hebrew-speaking

  brothers and sisters might say, repair for the world,

  see close, see far, see how similar we are,

  or could be, if the hatchets weren’t hanging over

  half our heads. Tarifi Optical, “rest your eyes from the rays,”

  we’d rather rest our eyes from people who can’t see us.

  I’ll take wide angle please, give me the whole horizon,

  citizens of magnificent olive tones, curly-headed, braided,

  kaftans, grandma gowns, exercise shirts, cotton dresses,

  people holding hands like a children’s book,

  standing on the globe,

  round as a floating pupil.

  Tarifi Optical invites us to “swap inelegant squinting”—

  I love their words, maybe I could be an optician,

  focused on better sight for all, and work at the Ottica shop,

  “premier inspiration destination”

  for top brands of eyeglasses in the West Bank,

  did you know we have such things?

  People think of us differently.

  We may be in prison, but we still love beauty.

  We may be oppressed, but we are smart.

  We may think we don’t need glasses, but the big E

  for equality has been lying on its back

  for a long time now

  kicking its legs in the air like an animal

  that needs help to get up.

  The Space We’re In

  echoes deeply

  Time doesn’t just crumple

  the minute you turn the calendar page

  I’m not sure about a country being great

  I don’t know what that means

  It sounds like bragging or more weapons

  I want a country to be nice to all people

  Make them feel better

  than people feel by themselves

  Compassionate and gentle

  I want people to

  move more slowly

  pay better attention

  share what they have

  In the old Palestinian tradition

  everyone was invited in

  Sit down, coffee or tea?

  Mint in your tea?

  Dates?

  even if you didn’t know the visitor

  America being mean to Palestine

  is nothing new

  reminds me of

  the dark side of junior high school

  those who think you can have

  only one best friend

  usually end up

  lonely

  No Explosions

  To enjoy

  fireworks

  you would have

  to have lived

  a different kind

  of life

  II.

  EVERYTHING CHANGES

     San Francisco Zen Center

  Facebook Notes

  Many say to Janna, Take care of yourself.

  We are praying for you. Janna, you are so brave.

  You run outside, our spirits go with you.

  Others say you are too young to do this on your own.

  Pushed forward as mouthpiece. You have charisma

  so people use you as spokesperson. What’s wrong

  with that? A senator from Planet Young? I’ll take

  anyone but what we’ve got. Our letters to editors

  trickled out for decades. What good did they do?

  You are the witness, on-the-scene, microphone in

  hand. You stand on the road to everywhere,

  asking, What is this? What next?

  We carry you with us wherever we go,

  folded document of hope, unfolded flag,

  unburdened alphabet, asking why.

  Mediterranean Blue

  If you are the child of a refugee, you do not

  sleep easily when they are crossing the sea

  on small rafts and you know they can’t swim.

  My father couldn’t swim either. He swam through

  sorrow, though, and made it to the other side

  on a ship, pitching his old clothes overboard

  at landing, then tried to be happy, make a new life.

  But something inside him was always paddling home,

  clinging to anything that floated—a story, a food, or face.

  They are the bravest people on earth right now,

  don’t dare look down on them. Each mind a universe

  swirling as many details as yours, as much love

  for a humble place. Now the shirt is torn,

  the sea too wide for comfort, and nowhere

  to receive a letter for a very long time.

  And if we can reach out a hand, we better.

  To Netanyahu

  My Palestinian father named his donkey after you.

  Yahu—everyone thought it was for the Internet,

  but he knew. Now I think he insulted the donkey.

  The donkey was friends with a horse, in a field.

  They didn’t have much, but they shared it.

  Pink flowers in spring—neither of them

  tried to rule the field.

  Your army just bombed a U.N. center for refugees.

  Gaza, imprisoned in poverty for decades—

  take that! More blood for supper.

  Years since my father died,

  his donkey still stands quietly

  gazing from enormous eyes,

  hanging his humble head.

  Pharmacy

  It stuns me to see the oldest man in the world buying shaving cream. He is also buying shampoo and boxed cookies, square sand tarts, a sack of chocolate peppermints. The amount of hope contained in these purchases, considering his bowed posture, his pale suit, majestic movements, his cane with a plastic coin purse attached near the handle, cannot be weighed. I think of the ten-year-old journalist photographing a demonstration of her people at home, shouting out bravely to the soldiers that threaten them, We just want to be left alone on our land. What is wrong with being on our land? And consider the terrain of this ancient man’s own American life. Who walked it with him, who held his hand? Today he is by himself. He will step out the automatic sliding doors of the pharmacy with great effort, hauling his plastic sack of purchases, and step careful
ly into his car at the special marked parking place, and drive away, ever so slowly. I don’t know what the little girl will do.

  My Father, on Dialysis

  wrote a book about Palestine called

  Does the Land Remember Me?

  He wrote it in longhand on scraps of paper

  as his blood filtered through the big machine

  He was not afraid to watch it

  circulate

  Nurses and aides asked him

  What are you doing?

  He said, planting a garden

  of almonds and figs

  Dipping sprigs of mint into

  glasses of steaming tea

  Breathing the damp stones

  of my old city

  Pressing my mind into the soul

  of an olive tree

  Blood on All Your Shirts

  Even your skinny ribbed undershirt

  your favorite blue guayabera

  A long life of travel ends in seepage

  Holes in the skin

  Difficult comebacks

  The graft and the duct and the valve

  Flirting with nurses a hopeful distraction

  Maybe they’d prick you more kindly

  If you listened to their marital woes

  Telling how deft and lovely they were

  How ruddy their cheeks

  angelic their smiles

  My Immigrant Dad, On Voting

  As a journalist I copied down what candidates said

  But I didn’t believe them

  No hardly ever

  If you paid attention

  the people who got elected

  always seemed to be crooks

  after the election

  Elections made me think though

  At least we had them

  At least people pretended

  Once my friend ran for mayor and I felt excited

  I know

  I should have been more enthusiastic

  Jimmy Carter was the only one I trusted

  He saw us as human beings

  He wasn’t afraid to say Apartheid which of course

  it was and always has been

  He got in trouble for being honest

  I wrote him a letter

  Said he was the best president I ever had

  You Are Your Own State Department

  Each day I miss Japanese precision. Trying to arrange things