The Tiny Journalist Read online

the way they would. I miss the call to prayer

  at Sharjah, the large collective pause. Or

  the shy strawberry vendor with rickety wooden cart,

  single small lightbulb pointed at a mound of berries.

  In one of China’s great cities, before dawn.

  Forever I miss my Arab father’s way with mint leaves

  floating in a cup of sugared tea—his delicate hands

  arranging rinsed figs on a plate. What have we here?

  said the wolf in the children’s story

  stumbling upon people doing kind, small things.

  Is this small monster one of us?

  When your country does not feel cozy, what do you do?

  Teresa walks more now, to feel closer to her

  ground. If destination within two miles, she must

  hike or take the bus. Carries apples,

  extra bottles of chilled water to give away.

  Kim makes one positive move a day for someone else.

  I’m reading letters the ancestors wrote after arriving

  in the land of freedom, words in perfect English script …

  describing gifts they gave one another for Christmas.

  Even the listing seems oddly civilized,

  these 1906 Germans … hand-stitched embroideries for dresser

  tops. Bow ties. Slippers, parlor croquet, gold ring, “pretty

  inkwell.”

  How they comforted themselves! A giant roast

  made them feel more at home.

  Posthumous medals of honor for

  coming, continuing—could we do that?

  And where would we go?

  My father’s hope for Palestine

  stitching my bones, “no one wakes up and

  dreams of fighting around the house”—

  someday soon the steady eyes of children in Gaza,

  yearning for a little extra electricity

  to cool their lemons and cantaloupes, will be known.

  Yes?

  We talked for two hours via Google Chat,

  they did not complain once. Discussing stories,

  books, families, a character who does

  what you might do.

  Meanwhile secret diplomats are what we must be,

  as a girl in Qatar once assured me,

  each day slipping its blank visa into our hands.

  Elementary

  At the 100-year-old National Elk Refuge

  near Jackson Hole, we might ask,

  How long does an elk live?

  Who’s an old elk here?

  We’d like to spend time

  with an elder elk please.

  Tell us how to balance our lives

  on this hard edge of human mean,

  mean temperatures, what we do and don’t

  want to mean.

  Closing the door

  to the news will only make you

  stupid, snapped my friend

  who wanted everyone to know as much

  as she did. I’m hiding in old school books

  with information we never used yet.

  Before I drove, before I flew,

  before the principal went to jail.

  Sinking my eyes into tall wooden

  window sashes, dreaming of light

  arriving from far reaches,

  our teachers as shepherds,

  school a vessel of golden hope,

  you could lift your daily lesson

  in front of your eyes,

  stare hard and think,

  this will take me

  somewhere. O histories of India,

  geological formations of Australia,

  ancient poetries of China, Japan,

  someday we will be aligned in a place

  of wisdom, together.

  Red deer, wapiti, running elk rising

  above yellow meadows at sundown.

  An elk bows her head. In the company

  of other elk, she feels at home.

  And we are lost on the horizon now,

  clumsy humanity,

  deeper into the next century than we

  can even believe,

  and they will not speak to us.

  On the Old Back Canal Road by the International Hotel, Guangzhou

  Janna, you are here too

  everywhere

  your curious thoughts

  delicately constructed

  You reside in every dream

  of human rights

  We breathe together

  eating hummus made by Palestinians

  where the green water weaves

  between brick channels

  stacked lives

  laundry strung from balconies

  geraniums popping red yeses

  somewhere a radio playing

  a very old song

  three notes up and down

  speaking to one another

  inside the rounded mind

  observatory

  new and old harmonizing here

  Everywhere I go

  you’re like the bodyguard

  our slim complaints

  in such a vast world

  (they thought I stole the pencil box

  from my room—

  I had just moved it)

  but no one shouting

  in front of my hotel

  Begone!

  Gray Road North from Shenzhen

  Stretching, stretching.

  Sober pavement, a fog of skyscrapers,

  looming gray clouds. Not one moving human

  visible outside. How loud the loneliness of workers

  abandoning villages for the long shifts,

  disappearing into factories,

  brief breaks, stark apartments

  where their second pair of gray pants waits.

  Stun

  Who’s remembering

  Yemen had the most

  amazing architecture

  in the world?

  Yemenis remember.

  No one mentions this on the news.

  Bomb explodes, bus

  of schoolchildren.

  Their glory also

  unmentioned.

  *

  Sometimes I just call out to Dubai.

  Dubai! I say. If you can build new

  buildings like that,

  can’t you help us?

  *

  We stood in the parking lot

  of the hospital after Daddy died.

  I couldn’t remember how

  to open a car door.

  All I Can Do

  “We have such a beautiful country, but it’s not been

  utilized before for this kind of tourism …”

  George Rishmawi, AramcoWorld

  One hand out against the earth,

  one hand up against the sky.

  Somehow I walk between them.

  They carry messages through my body,

  on a cord stretched between far places.

  What could have been, what might be …

  Some days it’s all I can do

  to stand still and answer you.

  In Some Countries

  There were people who had a hundred handbags.

  People who hired maids to take care of their maids.

  You could float down the Rhine and see castles.

  Dogs wore coats for daily walks in Central Park.

  A dog’s diamond collar glistened.

  We were not dreaming of these things for ourselves.

  We needed basics, starting small.

  Hello, you look like a human being to me.

  It’s hard to know what open roads mean

  if you’ve always had them.

  We can’t imagine

  the luxury of open roads.

  Seeing His Face

  For Jaffar, in Dubai

  When you said, first thing picking me up

  at airport—If he wins, we would have to see his face,

  hear his voice, that wou
ld be so bad for all of us—

  we could still laugh. Day before election, 2016,

  —surely this could not happen.

  Next day, we reeled into a bright sky,

  driving to a school, pummeled by morning news—

  desperately you kept flicking radio stations

  Arabic, English, Farsi, saying, I’m afraid

  it just happened. How could it happen?

  Shortly after, an Australian librarian

  would pass me a note, WTF?

  Small children gathering, notebooks, pencils,

  how could I speak a word, now that my own country

  took such a swerve? Little girls in dark uniform sweaters,

  with buttons. Smiling up. Tell us where to begin.

  Wales

  Once a friend drove me from England into Wales for one hour’s visit and that single hour was enough to suggest, for time immemorial, there are so many ways in which America can never be first. Black and white cows, nibbling gently between layered hillsides. Shocking radiance of green under silent drifting poufs. Sheep dodging up a rise, leaping alongside lined white stones. No wires, billboards, poles, not a scrap of rubbish, not a rubbish bin. Two hikers with blue backpacks lounging in a meadow. Approaching a V in the skinny one-lane pavement, my friend asked which way I wanted to turn. How would I know? Was there a preferred way? He paused. No, it is equally perfect every direction. Sorry, America. Who could say this about you?

  Peace Talks

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Trouble

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Talk

  Nothing

  Freedom of Speech (What the head-of-school told me)

  We would appreciate

  if you would not

  (you know

  in this strange climate

  taking all into account

  problems we have had

  misunderstandings

  angry parents

  insults

  Facebook postings

  teachers being fired

  demonstrations

  floods)

  mention the president

  Jerusalem’s Smile

  My father speaks from the heaven

  we don’t believe in

  Assign nothing to Jerusalem

  Who is that man pretending power

  over my stones?

  No one with guns will ever own me

  Cobbled stones feel my smile

  kingdom of heaven set into sunrise

  layers of giant time

  They hold so many feet

  tromping daily for centuries

  all those bowed heads

  folded hands  secret glories

  are part of me

  See how the man of power

  stands at a podium

  imagining he can say who I am

  where I belong in the constellation

  of cities

  Trust me

  I last longer than he does

  shabbiest vendor

  belonging to air

  On the Birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King

  Instead of Donald Trump, I will think of Dr. King’s dignity,

  his resonant voice, conviction, inclusion.

  Instead of Donald Trump, I will think of Steve Ng of New Mexico,

  who brought personal handmade clay cups

  from his home kitchen to a writing workshop at Ghost Ranch.

  Otherwise we would have been drinking

  from little disposable cups.

  Steve carried in two cardboard boxes, set up a table,

  arranged blue, gray, elegantly designed vessels in two rows.

  Pick which one you like best.

  The cups helped us feel cozier, as if Ghost Ranch

  could really be our home for a week.

  From Steve’s writing, one line:

  If I have the time to watch the shadows along the trees move, I can say I

  am satisfied.

  False Alarm Hawai‘i

  Heavy branches, orange tangerines. Emergency alert texted to telephones throughout islands said, Take Cover. Missile has been launched. This is not a drill. My husband was sitting north of Honoka‘a on Hawai‘i Island at a table, doing his work. No television in the house. So he waited, confused. Take cover? Dive under a chair? 40 minutes till they said, False Alarm. In Gaza it is rarely a false alarm. It really happens. Later it is backpage news, but the schools, clinics, art centers, people are destroyed. In Honolulu, children were escorted down manholes. Hysterical students running hard along beaten gray paths at university in Manoa. I love you, I love you! Sometimes Hawai‘i misses itself, true self before strip centers and public parking. It has everything it needs, but too many people want it now. Think what could be annihilated in a few seconds and has been, before. Kids at the American School in Tokyo distribute Hiroshima T-shirts before leaving on their annual Hiroshima camping trip. Who could wear it? Who could sleep?

  A Palestinian Might Say

  What?

  You don’t feel at home in your country,

  almost overnight?

  All the simple things

  you cared about,

  maybe took for granted …

  you feel

  insulted, invisible?

  Almost as if you’re not there?

  But you’re there.

  Where before you mingled freely …

  appreciated people who weren’t

  just like you …

  divisions grow stronger.

  That’s what “chosen” and “unchosen” will do.

  (Just keep your eyes on your houses and gardens.

  Keep your eyes on that tree in bloom.)

  Yes, a wall. Ours came later but …

  who talks about how sad the land looks,

  marked by a massive wall?

  That’s not a normal shadow.

  It’s something else looming over your lives.

  Alien Rescue

  1.

  For years I have loved the line: Elimination is the secret of

  chic (Balenciaga) but in the case of one’s home being washed away by

  mud, or storm, or Israeli bulldozer, this might not apply.

  Poet Mei-mei Berssenbrugge wrote: “He says problems in Israel can be

  solved by extra-terrestrials …”

  Land here, friends. Welcome!

  The Mount of Olives could use a new chapter in its story.

  2.

  The thing which did not go right haunts from inside

  like a splinter gained from swiping a hand

  across the broken chair, in sorrow.

  Chair carrying echoes.

  Villages humming songs of the absent ones.

  Please remember we too were rooting for things to be firm.

  Why is that hard to imagine?

  Anthony Bourdain made everyone come to the same table.

  How loud the echo right before dawn.

  3.

  Her voice a library of kindness.

  I hear pages rustling, hungry fingers

  moving through stories. If you were very alone,

  you would want this voice to find you.

  The Sweeper

  They say she has moved to another village

  to be with her cousins. Always we heard the rhythm

  of brush, brush, the predictable swish of

  a broom’s old hairs, the straw of continuing,

  yes, yes, make it better, tired but still working,

  morning and evening the sweep, the rustle,

  how could it be such a soft thing helped our sanity?

  Litter of leaves, branch bits gathering,

  she did not say goodbye.

  Arab Festival T-shirt

  SEATTLE 2007. I wasn’t even there,

  but wear th
is shirt proudly all the time.

  Since when Arab Tragedy only? No!

  Forgetting spread tables, smoky eggplant,

  tiny spinach pies, punctuating pomegranate seeds,

  neat almond in the center

  of each rectangle of harissa,

  since when we put down embroideries, joy,

  birth certificates of stitching and knotting,

  naming of constellations,

  discovery of equations,

  dancing with the handkerchief, oud and drum,

  we will teach our children, guard our skeins

  of blue and red thread,

  refusing to forget laughter even if the world forgets

  we ever have it

  and this T-shirt with bright turquoise

  and orange lettering on brave black says so.

  One Small Sack in Syria

  The vendor filled it fuller than it needed to be.

  He wanted to make his shoppers happy.

  He shook the roasted pistachios

  redolent with charcoal and fire

  into all corners of the brown paper bag

  and smiled, folding the edge.

  He said, Very good nuts.

  Long road to Aleppo.

  He said, Say hello to Aleppo.

  Positivism

  My friend in Gaza writes to me:

  Gaza Strip is really so wonderful … regardless of the siege … the sea port, the green fields, peaceful roads decorated with many red, pink, white and orange flowering trees, decent people, elegant restaurants and hotels with fascinating views … We wish … the crossing borders are always open where we can travel freely and friends can come to visit us freely as well …

  Fresh as a new notebook—that’s how anyone wanted to live.

  Hopeful as a pencil sharpened,

  clear as one beam of light landing on the table’s far side.

  The children dove into a story and flew far away.

  Even those who had never been to an airport

  or seen a plane land at close range.

  This was our superpower, retaining imagination

  in worst days. They smiled shyly.

  They expressed no blame.

  Regret

  To forgive ourselves for what we didn’t do

  Replay a scene over and over in mind