Adi Magazine

My brother in 2 pieces, my father headless, 
    And my mother weaving a prayer in needles
She does not see nor feel; yet she prays
    In threads worn out; weak; to wrap grand evils.

The air around me is clogged with dust, 
    My lungs feed on cement; my mouth, on rocks; 
Slowly giving up on the breath that I must
    Take. On me, whose end is in the hands of clocks.

I was imagining my mum’s prayer cut by a warning, 
    A warning so luxurious: a small bomb to announce
 That a bigger one is on its way; a one more daunting;
    So, in 5 minutes; we get our stuff, move across towns,

And on the way, we see thousands with their blankets,
    On trailers; hundreds on each one; embracing pillows
For beloved ones; smelling their cloths, salting their jackets, 
    In the moment a hit arrives; and left are purple tiptoes. 

I was imagining what I would do, if this happens;
    How would I rush for my passports, documents, 
Certificates, necklace, maybe, before a missile flattens
    A timeline of ups and downs, to only downs continuous;

Before it flattens all emotions, all building floors, 
    All our warmth, all the yelling and sound waves of
My dad calling me to make dinner, my mum, the chores, 
    And my brother, to help him with his tight boxing glove.

I was imagining how I wouldn’t sleep for days, 
    With the swift sound cheering for the death of families; 
Whom unlike me, would sleep forever; rest in piece-s, 
    Some, in their neighborhood, some, in distant valleys,

Covered with a dress of rubble nicely designed by planes, 
    With a touch of a color for fashion, that is their blood, 
And a special perfume extracted from the smoke of plains - 
     That is how they shall be; in the ice cream freezing truck.

                                                   ~

I was imagining a sky disturbed by engine sounds, 
    Which I wish would get mad and bless them with lightning, 
Or with its rain, would convince a pilot to hit mounds,
    Leaving the sky clear, for seconds, and a family dining.

Planes claim the sky; claim mothers and fathers, 
    Claim dreams, futures, one last kid's hope
That the hit was not directed at him: the boy in boxers;
    Claim the whispers of 'do not worry, we will cope'.

And oh, how much have I imagined myself thirsty, 
    Surviving on 300 milliliters a day; or eating bread
Stained with the blood of the dead, for hunger is surely
    Compelling when food is now a necessity we dread.

I even imagined a world where I would not mistake
    Dead babies covered in white for sacks of flour, 
And pregnant women giving birth to kids to take
    A generation into continuity; not fetuses into powder. 

I also stupidly imagined an existence where mothers, 
   Do not carry their kids twice; in wombs and on shoulders; 
Or at least, those who get to live on, not the martyrs, 
   Who'd join their kids in the foamy clouds with pretty odors.

I was imagining a reality where I would write about flowers, 
    But instead, I am here writing about babies becoming daisies,
When buried and watered with the tears of whoever is left, 
    For hours, and hours, till they themselves are part of the dailies.

I was imagining an empty expanse, devoid of traits, 
    Scorched and arid, no hint of nearby lands, 
Deprived of sustenance, no spot to contemplate, 
    Nonetheless, assembled upon its desolate sands, 

Stood a nation armless, paralyzed, yet they withstand;
    Broken gazes, with footwear of loose-fitting,
Hollowed of emotion, yearning for a cue to understand;
    Yearning for a calm start, or, for a calm ending.

In that imaginary scenario, lives are merely numbers, 
    Statistics to prove a point; to prove years of aggression, 
To prove that they are humans; singers, drummers, 
    Lawyers, school goers, plumbers; not instruments for elections.


I was imagining a world where none of this happened, 
                                                      In Gaza, for decades.