January 5, 2009


Hold them little one, tightly
won’t you, my suffering fingers –
your breath so short, your pulse
so faint, you are hardly here

with me and I have no time
to explain – it is not the shade of olive trees
that streaks your sunless face; it is not
the red poppies of Palestine I see blooming

there in your breast and I don’t know
how to speak what I wish – that it stung you
to feel my salt as I push my eyes
against your ragged jaw, that you’d

scream the agony of your torn body
as I pull you to me and curse my clumsy
mistreatment of your sagging shoulders,
the shattered glass of your mouth,

the splintered concrete of your bones –
if only you would, I could pretend anger at you
for bleeding on your best shirt, my shemagh
tucked under your head.

Hold them little one, tightly
won’t you, my suffering fingers –
your breath so short, your pulse
so faint, I am hardly here.