POEM "PALESTINE" BY PALESTINIAN AMERICAN POET NOOR HINDI

is a woman. A child

in a thobe. Olive pits in

my hands. The tatreez

on my grandmother’s scarf.

Is thirty-four Palestinians killed.

We don’t wake up. American

politicians. Occupied

country. Israel has the right

to defend itself. Ahed Tamimi,

ice cream on tongue,

flavor unknown. Are you grateful

your parents came to

this country? Three hundred

dead. Open-air prison. Ten-year

blockade. Rouzan al-Najjar,

accidental bullet. Pomegranate

so bloody. My grandmother,

born ten days before Nakba,

gunpowder in her blood.

Stop killing us.

Stop telling us how to fight.

Is grape mint hookah, country

I've never visited. Woman,

body bruised and policed.

Is queer. Is fuck the patriarchy.

Is three hundred thousand Palestinians killed.

My father crying

to Omayma El Khalil. Sweet black tea,

fresh mint stuck on the roof

of my mouth. Two state “solution.”

We thought the house

was empty. Is stranger living

in my great-grandfather’s home,

eating the pomegranates he once planted.

So how do you say

your name again? Is

????? Palestinians killed. Sunflowers

on their graves. Seeds

we crack between our teeth,

spitting out each shell

before digging another grave.

SOURCE: Dear God, Dear Bones, Dear Yellow: Poems by Noor Hindi, Haymarket Books, Chicago, Illinois, USA, 2022.