There’s one way
remember that you are Palestinian.
One way to scrutinize your face
in a bus window as date trees and porters flicker past
and break your reflection.
to reach the ozone layer
lightly, like a helium balloon
or to cry
because you’re a bastard.
to place your hands over the breasts of the one you love
of faraway things:
a small flat in a suburb of Paris, the Louvre,
loads and loads
of loneliness and books.
One way to die:
inciting the snipers
in the early hours of the morning.
To call your cheating girl
To smoke weed in a lift,
alone, at eleven o’clock at night;
to write a miserable poem in the bathroom.
to scream in the gutter
where your face waves again
in a toxic puddle
where you remember, in one way,
you are definitely nothing