I speak of your insistence
on believing what you’re told
to be so blind:
you must have learned
what not to know
to be so cold that you can say
“These people do belong
inside this tomb.”
They cannot move
or live
or eat
And, yes,
I speak of Palestine.

You cannot hold
its fate is just
and not be part
of grinding up
their bones and blood
to mix with desert earth
and olive oil
to build your state, your jail;
a wall surrounds
their place, like this:
a torture room
a starving field
a stolen home
a human shield
a bullet for a child
and poison gas on village streets
their food, their food!
Their food is gone
you cleanse
and push
and punish
taking what you want
to have for you alone.

We know it’s rape,
and though the world records
your names and deeds,
the future courts and trials
will not revive
the dead, displaced and missing.

And yes, I speak of Palestine.

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