Sand Path That’ll Lead the Refugees Home

I said enough–

of the hecklers and the haters and the 

flicked fingers and the Bibi defenders and 

the hey hey’s and the ho ho’s and the 

occupation that never seems to go because 

Genocide Joe– 

cares about all the hostages but 

the ones in the Open Air Prison.

I said enough–

of the Nakba 74 and 75 and so on

[This Israeli Independence Day:

I hope Yaacov blows himself enough balloons 

to send him flying back to Brooklyn]

So how ‘bout this?

Hey, Genocide Joe:

How ‘bout instead of pausing the bombing,

or feeling sad about the bombing,

How bout we actually… end the Bombing? 

               End the Nakba? 

How ‘bout that?

I want to end the Nakba;

I want to plant all our picket signs into the ground 

and watch them grow and sprout 

into every last olive tree 

that’s ever been torched to ashes;

–I want these picket signs to become something–

Your picket stick,

will be the spinning batons 

swirling and signing “freedom” 

into the air of Beit Lahm 

Yours, 

will be the ore of a Gazan fisherman 

that’ll taste unsoiled sea at last

And yours–

Yours will be the cane of the headmaster 

of the longest dabke line there ever was; 

And we will dance–

in a chain that’ll outstretch all the shackles of Israeli prison 

Put together. 

I want our bright orange marshal vests,

To never again be the burial sheets of another Rachel Corrie;

I never want to see these vests again

Except on a Eid day when Rafah is so jam-packed 

that a mother fears she’ll lose her child 

in the bakery smoke 

instead of phosphorus; 

There will be children 

clutching maamoul in place of rocks; 

There will be kites 

to teach the doves how to fly again; 

And mark my words–

I will link arms with every child 

like a chain of Jerusalem’s sesame bread 

And yes, we will dance– 

in a long-winding fence 

For now there are no walls anymore

I want a khalto, 

to bake us some legendary knafeh;

I want a khalto to bake that kind of knafeh 

that can stretch and patch the swiss cheese map

back into an unbreakable atlas; 

There will be food on this land 

that’ll make life worth living; 

There’ll be a teta

that’ll sculpt a maqloobeh flip

into a refugee’s lost sandcastle;

On this Land, 

The only greenlines 

will be acre upon acre of teta’s fresh mint 

and the only thing that’ll camouflage

is the greenwash that used to poison it.

But never again.

Never again of the 

greenwash and the 

pinkwash and the poison;

Never again,

of the detainees and the 

drone strikes and the death marches

–Never Again will a child only be able 

to come near an ice cream truck 

when they’re dead.

Never Again 

will a teen’s body be pumped with so much gasoline

that it becomes a cattle car 

driving him out into exile, 

Never Again 

will a father’s shoulders become the burial site 

of his sons face as he cowers

into his paternal arms 

Never again– 

Never again– 

I want to bring back Mohammed El-Durra to celebrate with us;

I want to bring back Mohammed Abu-Khdeir to celebrate with us;

I want to bring back Shireen AbuAkleh–I want to pull 

1,000 children out from the rubble to celebrate with us–

And I will initiate the longest Zaffah line 

to lead Ahmad Manasra out of prison 

where he will turn his twist ties into oud strings 

and we will play and laugh and sing and 

play and sing and dance 

And when we are done

We will take all the spoons of Gilboa prison

and we will dig– 

and dig–

and dig–

a tunnel to Ben Gurion’s grave 

And watch him turn as he realizes–

That the young have not forgotten

but for now, 

for now I’m just here

holding this picket sign 

for the ninth week again.

and as the car horns are cussing at me 

I just want to disappear for once 

And imagine the moment 

that Handala gets to turn around 

for the first time

And we all get to see his beautiful face at last;

and I want that boy, 

to gather all the children of Gaza

for a game of soccer 

under a bomb-less sky on a Rafah beach 

And I want that boy, 

to kick that soccer ball 

so, so far 

Until it engraves a sand path 

That’ll  lead every last one 

of our refugees

home.