MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER CARVED HER NAME ON THIS DOOR
A boy lost his father. This is no lost tooth.
That burning mosque is not a burning building
but a set of blistering arms. I’m sick of myself. If
I must fail, then let it be at complicity. This time
I can’t look at my reflection without seeing what I am:
a torch. Look at me: I’m not here. I’m at the foot
of the house where the soldiers spit
at my father. I put a cigarette to my skin
and I rupture: You are not
taking me mute. I’ve got a tongue to prove what
I already know, that silence is just noise
rubbing its hands together. What is there to be
silent about? Everything has already been said
except the way I have to say it: this land is my
body this land is my body this land is my
body. My great-grandmother carved her name
in this door. I’m not
leaving. My people in the streets are dying
like people. Two guns at my throat
like a new set of eyes.
—from Poets Respond
May 16, 2021
__________
Nardine Taleb: “I wrote this poem for Palestine in light of the recent violence against the people and children there. I felt, standing at the Free Palestine protests this week, that it’s easy to live my life turning a blind eye to injustice. I went to the protests to demonstrate that I will not take the easy route. Standing next to me was an older lady. As she chanted, she was crying, and I could see in her eyes that she couldn’t believe it: people cared about her people, who are dying. How long had she waited for someone to care? I wrote this poem with that heartbreak in mind.”
