Chlorophyll

 

The wood, which was used

Without love

To make wings of planes

And windows,

That wood

Inhabited by the spirits of hundreds of birds

From when it was part of a tree,

They clung to it,

While contemplating the skin of their little babies

And thinking

The leaves, which protect me from the wind …

Are late …

The wood of that window

Knows

That there are feathers beneath its bark,

That someday

It will be able to steal

Out of these squares

Designed for it

And then it will fly high

Wiping away the sweat of workers from its skin

Boasting

In front of children waiting for their school bus

That its origin was

A group of sparrows.

 

(from “An Angel Suspended on a Clothesline”)

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A Noble Mafia Man

I wander

in the gutter of life

Carrying my memory like an old canvas bag

Dripping angels

I collected in the past..

Leaving my lips in a metal cup

Like a dead log

For an old man

And I am a sparrow made of straw

Dreaming of a fish,

But the fat lorry

Which carries tears

Running

Down my cheek another time

Without brakes.

The cockroach I gave him two days

To die

He lied down hours ago on his back

Lifting his head a little bit

Towards the sky.

Maybe he wanted to whisper something to the angels

I will carry him in the air

Fascinated

By my giant size next to his

After that

I hang him on the back of that lorry

With a kiss

To his lover

And I come back

Like a noble mafia man

Just finished off his enemies

And dreaming now

of the fish.

(from “An Angel Suspended on a Clothesline”)

Space

 

Space

filled with big rocks

like the Moon,

cannot accommodate

the appeal of the lottery vendor

or absorb

the death of a friend.

It does not open

for children who play football

until the end of the day..

but remains

that outer space

the vendor sighs in the face of..

and we see in it

the visage

of a dead friend.

The outer space

that turns its biggest rock

into a ball

kicked hard

by the children

at the end of the day.

DNA

 

There’s one way

to scream..

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.

One way

to reach the ozone layer

lightly, like a helium balloon

or to cry

because you’re a bastard.

One way

to place your hands over the breasts of the one you love

and dream

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

a whore.

To smoke weed in a lift,

alone, at eleven o’clock at night;

to write a miserable poem in the bathroom.

One way

to scream in the gutter

where your face waves again

in a toxic puddle

where you remember, in one way,

you are definitely nothing

but

Palestinian.

Stray Bullet

 

After crossing the living room,

the library,

the long hallway

and the picture that holds us on a trip to the River Alkalb,

then passing the automatic washing machine,

and my mother, exhausted

despite the automatic washing machine,

it bends its trajectory with the force of gravity,

finally rests at the back of my head

and

kills you.

 

Chlorophyll

 

The wood, which was used

Without love

To make wings of planes

And windows,

That wood

Inhabited by the spirits of hundreds of birds

From when it was part of a tree,

They clung to it,

While contemplating the skin of their little babies

And thinking

The leaves, which protect me from the wind …

Are late …

The wood of that window

Knows

That there are feathers beneath its bark,

That someday

It will be able to steal

Out of these squares

Designed for it

And then it will fly high

Wiping away the sweat of workers from its skin

Boasting

In front of children waiting for their school bus

That its origin was

A group of sparrows.

(from “An Angel Suspended on a Clothesline” – 2012)