© 2015 Remi Kanazi

Haymarket Books

P.O. Box 180165

Chicago, IL 60618

773-583-7884

info@haymarketbooks.org

www.haymarketbooks.org

ISBN: 978-160846-524-8

Trade distribution:

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Discounts on bulk purchases are available for organizations, teachers, activists, and others. Please contact Haymarket Books for more information.

This book was published with the generous support of Lannan Foundation and the Wallace Action Fund.

Cover design by Eric Ruder.

Library of Congress CIP data is available.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Praise for Before the Next Bomb Drops

“Remi Kanazi is one of the most courageous voices of this generation. Before the Next Bomb Drops is a beautiful but urgent clarion call for freedom, justice, and resistance in every pocket of the world, from occupied Palestine to gentrified Brooklyn. Read this book and prepare to be inspired, enlightened, and emboldened.”

—Marc Lamont Hill, CNN commentator
and host of HuffPost Live and BET News

“Here is how I consumed Before the Next Bomb Drops: I’d read a page, then put it down, walk around the room for thirty seconds, then another page followed by another mental health break, and then I’d repeat this ritual. This book of poetry was devastating to pick up and impossible to put down. Remi Kanazi has graced us with poems that are an antidote to cynicism and a searing call of urgency for the human rights struggle of our times. If you are immersed in the struggle for Palestinian lives, your collection of literature is incomplete without this. But if you love poetry and know nothing of the Middle East, I also could not recommend a better book. Remi Kanazi has raised the bar for how art and politics can serve one another for the greater good.”

—Dave Zirin, the Nation

“This is by far Remi Kanazi’s best and most mature work. It is also his funniest, saddest, and most uplifting. His poems evoke places from Brooklyn to Gaza, and he travels in time from 1948 to a present sometimes experienced through images on a smartphone flitting past desensitized eyes. Writing the lyrics of a movement, Kanazi aims upwards at the powerful and inwards, challenging our own complacency. His rhymes and rhythms, filled with sharp wit, irony, and deep empathy, are a great joy to read even as they tackle some of the most urgent political struggles of our day.”

—Ali Abunimah, cofounder of Electronic Intifada
and author of the Battle for Justice in Palestine

“Remi’s verse is a series of indignant letters to the passersby of our historical moment who thought they were minding their own business but who, in fact, are perpetuating the problem with their privileged complicity. Each verse made me sink deeper into my chair and helped unleash a cascade of relieving tears: in anger, in mourning, and in hope.”

—Noura Erakat, George Mason University and human rights attorney

“One picture is worth one thousand words they used to say with regard to Palestine and its suffering throughout the ages. This wonderful, elegant, and moving book will convince you that one poem is worth one thousand words and many pictures. It is a poetic, and very accessible, personal journey into the past and present of Palestine that will resonate with anyone concerned with the land and its people.”

—Ilan Pappé, bestselling author of the Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine

“Remi Kanazi asks whether his words ‘hurt more than bombs dropped on Gaza?’ They may not, but his words, which combine art with a burning desire to narrate, to shout, to shake, to shame and to humanize, create a lasting, almost self-regenerating mind image of the bombs dropped, the houses demolished and the communities uprooted. Kanazi’s haunting poems are not written to be consumed; they reserve a place in one’s conscience, in one’s memory, and—hopefully—in one’s praxis.”

—Omar Barghouti, Palestinian human rights activist
and cofounder of the BDS movement

To my mother, Libby

who instilled in me the confidence

to speak my mind and never back down

in the face of injustice

Contents

Acknowledgments

Nakba

Lit Up

Out of Season

Until It Isn’t

Nothing to Worry About

An Empty Vessel

This Poem Will Not End Apartheid

A Distraction

#NoLessWorthy

Dislocation

Hebron

Normalize This!

Anything But Iraq

Tree-Lined Empire

An Open Letter to Campus Zionist Groups and University Chancellors

This Divestment Bill Hurts My Feelings

#WhatRemains

Solidarity

Appetite for Appropriation

Refugee

Refuse

Sumoud

Say Their Names

#InsideOut

Mourning in Cairo

Goldstone

Tone It Down

Peace Process

The Grin behind the Tears

Bobby

A Closing Bow

Layover in Palestine

Credits

Acknowledgments

A number of brilliant writers, editors, and colleagues helped elevate the work before you and deserve mention. My sincere thanks go to Dao Tran and Ruth Goring, whose essential editorial guidance enhanced the poems in this collection. I remain indebted to Anthony Arnove, Jason Farbman, and the rest of the Haymarket Books team. My heartfelt appreciation goes to Lannan Foundation, which provided the perfect writing oasis to craft and shape the poems gathered here.

This book would not have taken flight without instrumental feedback supplied by Tahani Salah, Andrew Kadi, Achilles Yeldell, Jay Cassano, Rebecca Pierce, Carlo Vivenzio, Hannah Mermelstein, and Adam Smith.

My deepest gratitude goes to Yasmin Hamidi, who kept me level-headed throughout this entire process and offered invaluable editorial advice at every stage. Special mention to my siblings, Ramzi and Rania. They continue to challenge me as a poet and brother and have helped amplify my writing since the pen first hit the page.

There are countless authors, educators, and artists whose words and actions have inspired much of the poetry in this volume. From Edward Said, Angela Davis, and Michelle Alexander to Suheir Hammad, Amiri Baraka, and DAM to youth activists in Gaza, the West Bank, and Ferguson—for all these powerful voices, and so many more, I am thankful. Finally, this collection is a reflection of the work done by students, elders, and community organizers on Palestine and other critical issues globally. My work would not be possible without their tireless energy, their moving actions, and the path they continue to pave. The road is long, the challenges are many, but we have a fire inside of us that can’t be extinguished.

Nakba

she was scared

seven months pregnant

guns pointed at temples

tears dropping 

stomach cusped

back bent 

dirt pathways

leading to

dispossession

rocking boats

waves crashing

people rushing

falling over each other

packing into small spaces

like memories

her home

  mandated

occupied

cleansed

conquered

terrorizers

sat on hills

sniping children

neighbors fled

on April 10

word came

of massacre

didn’t fight

didn’t leave

shells and bombs

bursting in air

like anthems

prayed for the dead

with priests and imams

prayed for the living

looking over shoulders

for the Irgun and Haganah

a warrior

raised life

planted trees

painted fruit

cared for the road

as if it was her garden

orphaned twice

after birth

from Palestine

whispered Yaffa

till final breath

never knew essence

until she found

emptiness

48 ways to flee

and she found Beirut

bullet holes in buildings

reminder of home

but not home

years later

daughters sat

on hills in the South

dreaming of breaking

water never touched

thinking of their mother

that warrior

how battles still

raged here and abroad

orchards flourished

propagandists called

them barren

land expropriated

for Europeans

thirsting for

territory

colonist

non-native

not from here

plant flags, call it home

rename cities and villages

uprooting graveyards

wiping/clearing/cleansing

memory that this

is not theirs

passed away

August 22, 2009

frail hands shook

lip trembled

didn’t want to die

but suffered decades

she spoke in Arabic

broken English

wounded words

and murmurs

her eyes closed

but every so often

they blinked brilliance

memories that could not

be erased, uprooted

or cleansed

she had not forgotten

we have not forgotten

we will not forget

veins like roots

of olive trees

we will return 

that is not a threat

not a wish

a hope

or a dream

but a promise

Lit Up

shells lit up the sky

like fireworks

breaking free darkness

as if awakening eyelids

her hazel bulbs staring up

to cascading snow showers

tiny hands wanting to touch

what she sees

in Iraq

they called it

Shake ’n Bake

in Gaza

no one even cared

to name it

on her skin

it was like

open flames

devouring

crisping flesh

deformed babies

crying out loud for help

a doctor cradling a child

falling apart in his hands

her stomach

a cadaverous

abyss

they are going to call him

a liar

a propagandist

an apologist for terror

tell the world it wasn’t

white phosphorous

claim elections

led to this disaster

they will open and close cases

the media blocks out

the blockaded

Mark Regev stands in

as if he works at CNN

this is not normal

not rational

but it is

and it was

and it won’t stop being

just because you refuse

to acknowledge it

not enough space in a poem

to read all the names

of the dead

Zaid

Hamza

Shahad

Muhammad

pick through the damage

shards

of bone

and ashes

every minute in anguish

every beat rips out

a father’s breath

this is what you brought

what you laid bare

what you tried to wash away

what the media refuses to see

as the bomb’s blast

shatters the rest of the dead

and terrorizes the living

it is

and it was

and it won’t stop being

just      because          you      refuse

to         acknowledge it

Out of Season

you want peace between our peoples?

coiner of Demographic Threat

shrewd settlement builder

champion of the Nakba

you want us to get along

Mr. Nazareth Illit

shaving hilltops

like bad fades back

to 1970s South Africa

you want us to grin

cross legs and play

chess in the park

offer tea made from

poisoned water wells

Ma’ale Adumim

you were born in Moscow

in Tripoli, in San Francisco

chat me up at a checkpoint

before you realize I’m Palestinian

you stomp through destroyed villages

like Broadway dancers

build parks on cemeteries

and casually ask me

what my deal is

your furnace is heated with our wood

table covered with our cloths

figs plucked from our trees

and you want us to coexist?

I have no problem

with Palestinians

he says to me

squatter of colonies

usurper of aquifers

exploiter of occupied labor

there is Arabic on the awning

of the house you live in

no scars on palms

to show you built it

the stones you stand on

were laid by a grandfather

who passed away in 1997

his daughter clutches a key older

than any memory you possess

presents a deed affirming your conquest

roughshod and ruthless

never even bothered

to change the locks

you want to sit

drink tea

and act civilized

in a park in Brooklyn

message me on Facebook

like we went to high school together

nonchalantly appeal to my reason

but your proverbs are out of season

anecdotes more played out

than tales of a land

without a people

your talking points don’t resonate

your prime has passed

your legs are wobbling

the world is waking up

to this charade

you don’t want peace

you want pieces

and this puzzle

doesn’t end

well for

you

Until It Isn’t

death becomes exciting

tolls, pictures, videos

tweeting carnage

instagramming collapse

hearts racing to break

24-hour entertainment

every glimpse, splinter

and particle of pain

jammed into torsos

and cheekbones

loved ones

want to sit

for a minute

and cry quietly

no words, no poetry

before Internet and

dialed-up emotions

before black and

white ideologies

before a person

I called friend

defended massacres

before the victims

were laid to rest

before chemical weapons

ravaged insides

before refugee

meant grandmother

suffering 2.0

keyboard clicks

like bombs so effortlessly

dropping

all damage collateral

never personal

voyeurs hop on and off

like carnival rides

death becomes

exciting

until it isn’t

until boredom sets in

and desensitization begins

until the next ride emerges

somewhere else

more captivating

Nothing to Worry About

the world is a messed-up place

rolled off your tongue

like an arrogant excuse

it’s easy to say that

  when drone strikes aren’t

leveling your block in Brooklyn

  when stop-and-frisk isn’t

haunting your every move

  when your baby’s

blood-spattered body isn’t

plastered onto your

Park Slope avenue

Black men make up 40%

of the US prison population

nearly half for drugs that

white men abuse at a higher rate

drunk driving kills

more than crack

but DUIs don’t attract

five-year sentences

don’t see Jim Crow signage

in courtyards, but the same structures

still shackle the ankles of Black inmates

we spend

2.1 million dollars a year

to put a soldier in Afghanistan

35 thousand to lock a Black kid

up with racist laws

a third of that on education

and only 15 thousand dollars

on a minimum-wage job

pundits pontificate on

the color-blind era

we live in

where race gets

thrown out of the class

                                 struggle

and intersecting systems

of oppression get no airtime

the world is a messed-up place

and you seem to be profiting nicely

noise-canceling headphones

blocking out ambulance and

police sirens in the faint distance

a Palestinian kid was shot in the back

the bullet subsidized by your tax dollars

the guy who used to deliver your weed

was just sentenced to eight years

in prison with no priors

the drone buzzing will be heard

one day over Brooklyn, but it will

skip your gentrified neighborhood

you have nothing to worry about

we don’t want this messed-up world

to crash your baby’s lullaby 

An Empty Vessel

no more

gruesome images

  nails across faces

    generations collapsing

    on themselves

a father ripping through rubble

coated in blood

caved-in rooftops

immersed in the musk of death

no more cries

  crashing inside ears

  like cymbals

    can’t unsee

    can’t stop

    from happening

this is massacre

Shejaiya is everywhere

this is annihilation

infants in pieces

this is a war crime

the beach is bleeding

she wants her husband back

stop dehumanizing our men

she wants her best friend back

stop killing our fathers

she wants her baby girl back

stop robbing our cribs

you incinerated classrooms

the morgues are overflowing

knew it was a shelter

white flags drenched in flesh

shelled the building again

children stuffed in ice cream freezers

knew what you were doing

the earth is still swallowing us

you are not the victim

  not the narrator

    don’t get to tell us

    how to process our pain

you are swindlers, terrorists

fascists fiending for our limbs

  read the reports

  become sick with yourself

    you are everything

    you levied against us

should be ashamed

  Goliath on mass graves

yet you remain

  an empty vessel

striding through a sea

of blood you spilled

This Poem Will Not End Apartheid

this poem

will not end apartheid

my words, no matter how beautiful

clever or carefully strung together

will not end the occupation

allow the return of refugees

or create equality

within Israeli society

the status quo is a fantasy

telling us it’s ok

to sit on our hands

call political art propaganda

rather than calling those

who politicize our lives

propagandists

every American

should ask this question

why are mortars and missiles

devastating open-air prisons

with money that should be paying

for our medical expenses?

to the academics

and pseudo leftists

I appreciate your books

on Israeli massacres

but you refuse to take

bullets out of Israeli guns

with your stances

the problem is not just the occupation

or putting a better face on Zionism

because 750,000 Palestinians

were displaced

before those settlements

were constructed

half of them before

Israel was created

we don’t need another book

explaining the situation

we need a lesson plan

to stop the next bomb

from dropping

silence is complicity

over-intellectualization tells us

to theorize on the power of art

while farmers are kicked off land

children are stoned

on the way to school

people are caged in

beaten and split

from loved ones

blasted and broken

in blockaded dungeons

bought and paid for

with our tax dollars

we are part of the problem

that is not theoretical

it is time

to boycott all

Israeli products 

and go to the root

of the conflict

every 729

cultural institution

and dialogue farce

from Sabra to Ahava

Max Brenner to Aroma

Lev Leviev to SodaStream

switching drink preferences

stacks up little to 67 years

of continued dispossession

finally

to the artists

building bridges

between apartheid

and normalization

you serve an agenda

that rebrands colonialism

as enlightened liberalism

concerts, ballets, and raves

in Israel’s Sun City

a haven and party stop

for pinkwashers

who callously ignore

Palestinian LGBTQ groups

working against all systems

of oppression

Palestinian civil society has spoken

don’t cross this picket line

or cash in a paycheck

signed apartheid

cancel that gig

put down Stolen Beauty

and join the rest of us

on the right side of history

A Distraction

you weren’t awake to notice

A Christmas Story marathon

played in the background

debates raged while Al Aqsa burned

history made as they flattened Gaza

stockings and stomachs stuffed

as politicians prepared mass graves

fit for children

you were camping

as the airport was struck

refilling lemonade in the backyard

while UN convoys were charred

counting down as they shelled

schools and mosques

in the swimming pool

as Sabra and Shatila

buried the dead

the radio wasn’t on

the Celtics were playing

you were picking the kids

up from school

you were busy

flustered

working it out in therapy

fighting it out in your relationship

you were drunk in the East Village

you were consumed

we all are consumed

no fingers pointed

no blame placed on you

but the alarm clock is buzzing

if you are listening

if you are dreaming

if your nightmares

are flashing back

the alarm is sounding

it is time to wake up

#NoLessWorthy

they don’t hate our way of life

they despise our way of death

granulated bones

and crushed pelvises

decimated

decapitated

even when

you choose

not to see it

#WarOnTerror

♦

police pounded on his ribcage

like a new drum set, rammed their fists

into tendons and wounded limbs

boot marks on his face, eyes bruised shut

and busted lip, camera capturing every blow

too busy banging on his jawline to notice

#TariqAbuKhdeir

a smile

  a first kiss

    a ticket to college

      a life

no less worthy

than Natalee Holloway

or Casey Anthony’s kid

no race war in sight

just a one-way slaughter

and drubbing

of Black existence

#MikeBrown 

♦

caged for 17 days

  deporter-in-chief

    gave no reprieve

      fracturing families

      by the millions

    seven years stateside 

  shipped away

like airport luggage 

  #undocumented

arms raised

waving back

and forth

at the sky 

like windshield

wipers

in a rainstorm

soldier didn’t blink, opened fire

man collapsed on himself

like a building demolition

#Baghdad

♦

you don’t deserve a medal for speaking up

against misogyny, finger snaps for railing

against the prison industrial complex

special hugs for standing with

undocumented communities

combating oppression isn’t

a game you get prizes for 

#solidarity

Dislocation

peace is a lucrative industry

  an engine

    a profit model

      a 501c3

built on consumer confidence

and shrewd

business practices

30% of the Palestinian Authority

budget is for security

subcontracting occupation

and expanding jails

across the West Bank

while fishermen are shot at sea

Haifa, Yaffa, and the Galilee

transfer to Ramallah and Gaza City

Jerusalem is swapped out for Abu Dis

Palestine becomes

22%

15%

10%

the Jordan Valley

morphs into a military zone

orchards become E-1

split blocks, and settler roads

rocks become terror

wombs become threats

return becomes national suicide

and millions of Palestinians

are left hanging in exile

  diaspora becomes foreign

Lebanon, Jordan, Syria, Iraq

Egypt, Chicago, Santiago

anywhere but home

we are always the problem

clothes hung out to dry

  everyone writes a poem

we have been reduced to odes

and books and a class and a clash

at a NYU bar with two sides

and intractable struggle

we’ve been separated

compartmentalized, carved

up and spit out by processes

and we are told

theft is peace

ethnocracy is democracy

dispossession is liberation

anything to numb the world

to this dystopian reality

Hebron

this once bustling street

now a ghost town

scattered with the remnants

of Palestinian shops

rusted awnings

and green doors

welded shut

gas the Arabs scrawled across entryways

gas the Arabs inscribed by a people

who have been gassed before

children trounced, water wells poisoned

water tanks shot, sewage heaved

upon mothers

usurpers parade around

razing whatever is in their sight

American-born settler

butchered 29 Palestinians

as they prayed in Ibrahimi mosque

clip after clip unleashed

like a bad action flick

extra ammo to catch injured

worshipers crawling away

Zionism’s wonder boy

hailed as a hero

a shrine erected 

in his name

Israeli soldiers on the scene

lashed out at victims, beat protesters

jailed community members

and executed blood donors

for pebbles thrown against

a fortress of occupiers

Oslo doves used the mosque’s

blood-soaked carpet to tear

the city in two

colonize the Cave of the Patriarchs

and asphyxiate the local economy

salt in the wound and a thumb

in the eye of loved ones mourning

850 settlers strangling the lives

of 30,000 Palestinians

apartheid on full display

the Western media

on a coffee break

no rising tensions

no breakdown in peace

because the brutalized

and dead aren’t Jewish

20 years later

young boys are still

being stuffed into prison

collective punishment

the national mantra

Shuhada Street

remains closed

a people

remain deprived

but a simmering is taking place

it isn’t a newspaper headline

or talk of a third intifada

but an acknowledgment

inside their bones

this wretched nightmare

is merely a moment in time

Normalize This!

Nor·mal·i·za·tion applies to relationships that convey

a misleading or deceptive image of normalcy, symmetry

or parity, despite a patently abnormal and asymmetric

relationship of colonial oppression and apartheid.

—Palestinian Campaign for the Academic 

and Cultural Boycott of Israel

nothing

is normal

about occupation

nothing normal about

apartheid, ethnic cleansing

siege, blockade, Israeli-only roads

the bombing of water wells, schools

mosques, and UN buildings

nothing normal

about putting a civilian

population on a diet

paying nonindigenous

colonizers

to occupy land

that is already inhabited

rewriting the Nakba

with each stolen childhood

trying to desensitize the bullet holes

and claw marks put into the bodies

of Bassem Abu Rahme and Rachel Corrie

no

I don’t want to normalize with you

I don’t want to hug, have coffee

talk it out, break bread

sit around the campfire

eat s’mores and gush about

how we’re all the same

I don’t want to share the stage

cowrite a poem

submit to your anthology

talk about how art

instead of justice

can forge a better path

I don’t want to indulge

your amnesia

about a glorious past

have a therapy session

on two sides

with equal grievances

the only thing barren

is your moral capacity

blooming a settler colonial state

with appropriated culture

I will not fight for your privilege

nor will I seek to normalize it

your dialogue group

is a breeding ground for injustice

just look at the board members

and the ZOA sponsorship

Zionism is the real

demographic threat

infecting the minds

of millions with racism

they were hooded in the South

pushing darker nations into Bantustans

jailing young men in H Blocks

in North Ireland

in case you missed the hint

I don’t want to pretend all is ok

that bombs dropped on Gaza

don’t have a manufacturer

the pilot doesn’t have a nationality

or Shimon Peres is any better

than Avigdor Lieberman

it’s not just the occupation

stupid

it’s the right of return

equality for all Palestinians

it’s the transformation

from an exclusivist

supremacist state

to a nation

for all of its citizens

you deserve nothing

more than equality

which means more than

African refugees are provided

in South Tel Aviv

you are the shining light

on a settlement hill

reminding the world

that racism often comes

in nice packaging

we don’t give the Sudan

3.4 billion dollars a year

in military aid

don’t have preferential trade

agreements with North Korea

don’t call Iran a democracy

you are a proxy for empire

a 1950s ethnocracy trapped

in 21st-century clothing

yes, Israel

you are singled out

with aid, weapons, and

UN vetoes in your favor

did I hurt your feelings?

should we hug after the show?

do these words hurt more than

bombs dropped on Gaza?

white phosphorus incinerating

the insides of children?

I am not the bad guy

you are defending

the bad system 

your words

and actions

have consequences 

you are either

with oppression

or against it

I didn’t write history

and didn’t choose for you

to stand on the wrong side of it

your system of injustice

is coming to an end

and whether you

recognize it or not yet

it will be liberating

for you too

Anything But Iraq

That’s it, the war is over.

—A US soldier to NBC’s Richard Engel

(December 17, 2011)

I.

the war on Iraq is over

don’t see the mass graves

the coffin boxes

the cancer rates in Fallujah

there are no winners or losers

no need for electricity

water and

sewage facilities

because

we have

expanded weapons deals

the world’s biggest embassies

and Americans filling streets

with contractors armed to the teeth

wherever there’s America

there’s democracy

creating Green Zones and

hired guns who come back

with PTSD and vacant souls

patriots call it liberation

the bombed call it imperialism

empire, desire for resources

the problem is Afghanistan

I mean Iraq

I mean Afghanistan

no, Pakistan, Yemen

Somalia, Iran

our ally Saudi Arabia

it’s Al Qaeda on Mars

the Taliban from the moon

it’s security

domestic, global

democracy building

leveling villages

to protect civilians

we are brave

wear armor

call people heroes

give them names

faces

and favorite colors

but don’t even mention

the Brown ones over there

whose graves we barely

fit into statistics

never mind lives

with vivid memories

II.

Merriam-Webster: Iraq. noun

1. a war America fought under false pretenses

2. an unaccomplished mission

3. an object we reference on anniversaries

4. an investment that didn’t yield the expected benefits

5. in the past; not to be thought about or discussed

III.

Iraq is destroyed

a nation became a broken item bought

a sectarian land, a money suck

a place where soldiers die

a mistake, anything but Iraq

anything but a place with history

and textures and complexities

and a culture, a place that remains

no matter how hard you strike it

no matter how many times you

bend the spine of its letters

you cannot break it

you, who worship

the tank shell and sound bite

take Iraq out of your mouth

let a people breathe

for just one moment

without trying to

set it ablaze

Tree-Lined Empire

4 a.m. on a tree-lined block in Brooklyn

million-dollar brownstones lined up

like Monopoly properties

a homeless man in his 50s

travels from apartment

to apartment collecting bottles

good evening, he nods

as our paths begin to intersect

tree-lined empire, streamlined stereotypes

drunk, lazy, blaming-the-victim culture

collecting bottles, hard at work

digging through trash cans

give / don’t give becomes debate

over $4.50 coffee, an inebriated friend you are

walking with bestows conventional wisdom

he’s probably going to use the money

for drugs or alcohol

rarely do people

who have never been without

shelter or luxury focus on action

homelessness created by capitalism

settler colonialism, the thirst for more

of what isn’t yours

exchanged words

gave the man some money

not to end poverty, supplant strategy

or replace structural analysis

but because I live in a country

where there are three times as many

empty homes as there are homeless people

where patients die without health care

enough hospitals, beds, machines, nurses

doctors, and people get sick, go bankrupt

while resources remain in abundance

no discussion on gutting mental health

lost minimum-wage jobs, and PTSD

overrepresentation of Black

and Native communities

on US streets

affordable housing, a talking point

substance abuse criminalized

poverty needs bootstraps

put guns in 19-year-old hands

send them off to wars for profit

but step over veterans begging

for change outside Rite Aid

so righteous is this

richest nation in the world

built on genocide and slave labor

what does it say when a man

digging through the trash

represents the problem

when his situation is merely

an indictment of the foundation

this society rests upon

An Open Letter to Campus Zionist Groups and University Chancellors

this conversation is a dialogue

  my Facebook post

  that comment back

  the e-mail chain

  the article

    and response to the article

  the soon-to-be Q&A

  the debate in the quad

  yesterday’s phone call

  that time I smiled

    said hello

    and held the door

    for a member

    of Bruins for Israel

you know where we can’t

have any kind of dialogue?

in Palestine

because I’m not allowed to return

because dispossessed Palestinians

aren’t allowed to return

because indigenous refugees returning

would put ethno-religious

supremacy in jeopardy

it’s easy to whine

about your comfort level

when there isn’t a checkpoint

stopping us from meeting

no wall blocking tonight’s

event from happening

I don’t get to drop

white phosphorus

on your dorm room

and call it security

if our chat doesn’t go well

so let’s have a thought

experiment on tolerance

would Hillel, J Street

and university Zionist groups

come to a meeting to dialogue

on whether or not Jews should

have equal rights in America?

whether or not Jews

should face checkpoints

on campus in America?

whether or not Jews should be

stuffed into open-air prisons

in America?

yet you expect Palestinians

to indulge your racism?

that is not dialogue

that is not moving forward

that is the status quo

that is the bomb’s blast

that is the silence

of solitary confinement

you want to hug over justice

I’ll stretch my arms

and fingertips so wide

my knees buckle

but I saw you read

a prepared question

off your android

given talking points

by StandWithUs

to derail the discussion

you don’t want dialogue

you want domination

and that is not something

I can offer you

most administrations don’t care

about campus climate

they care about donors

and empty e-mail boxes

houses made of sand

willing to crumble

at the first sight of rain

overbloated salaries and egos

overanxious trigger fingers

willing to throw as many

Black and Brown bodies

under the bus as need be

so chancellor X

  challenge us

student council Y

  let your backbone fold on itself

administrator Z

  tell me about climate

  while artillery shells

  eviscerate natives

  you never cared

  to learn about

because students are coming

and they aren’t stopping

cowering

caving

to veiled threats, stripped funding

and attacks on their organizations

you made a miscalculation

  the road to freedom

  is not through the academy

but these students

  armed with more passion

  than donor funds lining

  your pockets

are sure as hell

going to smash

your roadblocks

This Divestment Bill Hurts My Feelings

this divestment bill

hurts my feelings

that Caterpillar bulldozer ended life

in the body of an American citizen

drove her bones into the ground

while a company cashed in

on the sale

the claws of D-9 bulldozers

unearth the livelihood

of occupied Palestinians

uprooting their graveyards

to make way

for illegal settlements

but we need

a positive

campus climate

while HP’s stock rises on division

producing technology

to segregate Palestinians

biometric IDs at checkpoints

enhancing the naval blockade

of an open-air prison

Palestinians on campus

listen to words like climate

positive, hurt feelings

knowing their tuition

invests in companies

raining terror on loved ones

that suffering

like their voices

is nonexistent

to student board members

looking for cushy jobs

at top-five law firms

but this divestment bill

it’s divisive!

the Montgomery bus boycott: divisive

the grape boycott: one-sided

abolishing slavery: radical

Nelson Mandela: a terrorist

indigenous: savages

women’s suffrage: complicated

desegregation: provocative

Hiroshima: security

internment camps: a necessity

Bantustans: autonomy

Iraq: liberation

Palestine: barren

there is always an excuse

catch phrases, talking points

strip away names and faces

we are being militant, unreasonable

there is context to this oppression

the word apartheid

makes you feel uncomfortable?

it’s apartheid by definition

fits the ’73 convention

by law

it is a crime

against humanity

two sets of laws

for two people

labor, land ownership

access to education

50 laws of discrimination

67 years of colonization

27,000 homes demolished

nearly a million arrested

since ’67

whoa, whoa, whoa!

no one said Israel

doesn’t have problems

but why the singling out

on campuses?

you mean like

Darfur, Tibet, South Africa

sweatshops, Coca-Cola

animal testing

the Keystone Pipeline

undocumented rights

the prison industrial complex

fossil fuels, teachers’ unions

university cuts and bottled water?

  the real question

  why are you singling out

  any injustice for protection?

let me get the next one for you

Israel is democratic

democratic like coal is clean

Miller Lite is the same

great taste, less filling

and McDonald’s salads

are healthy

these are not

imagined scenarios

our tuition dollars

are profiting from death

divestment is the next step

this is not about

a nation or a people

but what is being done

to people

in our names

with our currency

this university

will not liberate anyone

but it can choose to cease

making a buck off misery

vote yes for divestment

no to appeasement

affirming injustice

isn’t positive

for any climate

#WhatRemains

a laboratory

testing ground

coated metal canisters

and cracked limbs

creating new markets

with each bone broken

#NabiSaleh

♦

still wets the bed

shivers in the corner

the last clean sheet

around his shoulders

embarrassed afraid

stares out

the window

teeth chattering

the buzzing

unyielding

#OccupiedSky

split chest open

  blood-soaked fabric

  hung off his limp body

    wide-eyed grin

    marching with children 

    raising fists at US claws

    digging up history

  tear gas canister

  broke the portrait

  robbed his life

    and left anguish

    on his doorstep. #Bilin 

♦

Palestine is not Ferguson

not South Africa, not Jim Crow

not Emmett Till, not an earthquake

tsunami, the Holocaust, death cabs in Chile

it is not everything, but it is so much of

something

my heart breaks for Mike Brown’s family

spine jerks at mention of a shotgun shell

entering Renisha McBride’s body

a knot in my throat wrenches

at Black bodies on pavement

it is not the same, but the swollen eyes

the stuttering breath, the anger rushing

through the corridors of our bones feels

so familiar. #Palestine2Ferguson

cooking in the kitchen

  sfiha in the oven

greens laid out

on the counter

artillery shelled

mangled body parts

    scattered limbs

  and severed head

couldn’t identify

what remained

  wedding finger

  still intact

child wailing

in the next room

  #Gaza 

Solidarity

I.

you can speak

you always do

never minded replacing

indigenous syllables

with Western vernacular

politics on paper

but never in practice

cleansed native tongues

on soapboxes built on

stolen land

we would no longer smile

hold the door, take your coat

get on our knees and praise

this fool’s gold

not palatable

not reasonable

never white enough

narratives ghostwritten

poorly and without

our permission

I am not looking for you

academic savior

know-it-all solidarity activist

condescending anti-Zionist

owe you nothing for introspection

will award you no medal as you shout

your own name at the top of your lungs

Palestinian women worked decades in camps

weaving fabric until fingers bled

watched their children die

as they built foundation for return

their names have never been mentioned

faces put on a poster or hailed as heroes

they built classrooms because their hearts

willed it, memory could not erase it

II.

when we make saviors out of movements

organize around egos and forgo campaigns

pedestals and ivory towers must be critiqued

your contribution is just that, a contribution

I wake thankful

for those who speak out

refuse, resist

but solidarity

comes with recognizing

and checking privilege

solidarity comes with knowing

that you are not better than others

simply because you hold a mic

students are not worker bees

while you take all the credit

Palestinians are not victims

that need to be saved

children that need to be dictated to

solidarity is not a golden pass

to stomp, abuse, and run over

you want to battle oppression?

confront your own complicity

in communities of solidarity

Appetite for Appropriation

Arab is the new Black

a speaker says

to a nodding crowd

he’s being profound

making comparisons

we are the new oppressed

45 million baton-passers

traversed a turbulent history

now living post-racially

in Obama’s America

tell that to millions

stopped and frisked

tell that to Black graduates

who see double the average

unemployment rate post-graduation

tell that to legislators

  implementing racist drug laws

supporting mandatory minimums

  that fill their private prisons

tell that to the mothers

of Sean Bell, Rekia Boyd

Jordan Davis and Aiyana Jones

tell that to those whose executed loved ones

can’t fit between the rigid letters

of this stanza

don’t need to go overseas

to see militarism at play

don’t need to bomb Baghdad

to witness shock and awe

go to Shaw, to Philly, to Harlem

catch the tears of Ramarley Graham’s father

before they crash to the floor

we have to think critically

address structurally and

not replicate the processes

of appropriation our own

communities condemn in society

rush to chide hummus being labeled Israeli

but use Black history as garnish

in our struggle for liberation

non-Black communities of color

don’t get a pass to promote

problematic politics for elevation

Black lives aren’t a punch line

Black Lives Matter isn’t a slogan

Black suffering isn’t a tool to fight

another community’s persecution

if to prop up your own plight

you have to shove another

people’s face down in the mud

you are simply affirming

the very structure of cruelty

you claim to be combating

Refugee

I.

she has never

seen the sea

sunlight imprinted

on her father’s skin

waves crashing

at his feet

smile tattooed

underneath boyish grin

snapping pictures

with closing eyelids

her father’s face

flush on recollection

the same waves that had

clenched like an angry jaw

as his mother pushed him

forward like a train car

watched his neighbor drown

tears streaming

eyes connecting

screams muffled

as inhalation

suffocated lungs

muscles weary

skin pruning

barely a boy

knowing he would

never return

his neighbor

  an older man

born in Akka

looked dapper

at dinner parties

looked helpless that day

  his body revolting

  against death

a pool intent

on swallowing him

so many stroking

to get on boats departing

who’d have known this gulf

would be their deathbed

II.

she has been beaten

ID checked

body thrown to the ground

fists and feet pummeled

fractured hip, shoulder broken

heart, too many times

tear gas inscribed on her lungs

she wrote back on her breath

that the canister’s defeat is near

III.

these fields are ours

she told me

before the Europeans

  and Brooklynites

before the swimming pools

  army jeeps and barbed wire

before the talks, roadmaps

  and Swiss cheese plans

before declarations rewrote history

  those hills met footprints

  and that can’t be erased

like village massacres

  can’t be erased

like broken bones policies

  can’t be erased

like the screams ringing

  in her father’s ears

  can’t be erased

we are the boat

  returning to dock

we are the footprints

  on the northern trail

we are the iron

  coloring the soil

we cannot

  be erased

Refuse

don’t pull that trigger

you don’t have to go

don’t have to fight

conquer, kill, beat

torture, scar

your own conscience

will eat away at you

remind you, tell you

what you did

at night in hallucinations

broken sleep and deep sweats

in shattered relationships

and black eyes

it is not business

as usual

you will climb that chair

creep up that ladder

put a rope around your neck

and leap to go back

to the way it was

swallow a shotgun

it will fester

jolt and choke you

those who sent you

won’t remember

won’t care, won’t treat

won’t keep promises

you will die alone

even if surrounded

by loved ones

don’t pull that trigger

step off that ledge

you are not

jumping alone

pull back

lift that finger

turn in the other direction

there will be repercussions

but they cannot last forever

that will last forever

that gunshot

that trigger pulled

  will not end

  be amended

  be fixed

when you come back

a shell of your former self

refuse to be damaged

refuse to be pawned

refuse to serve

their agenda

you have a choice

remember that

you can

refuse

Sumoud

I.

Ahmed was four years old

the first time his father

was torn away from him

wasn’t afraid of ghouls

under his bed

or the grim reaper

in his closet

the nightmare

hovered over him

thermal night-vision goggles

and loaded M16s

plowing through the house

searching for their target

he could see their breath

in the cold night

feel their spit

on his warm skin

the front door

kicked in at 3 a.m.

Yallah! shouted in Hebrew accents

other words and phrases

he couldn’t understand

his mother

belting out futile tones

  an umbrella

facing a tsunami

Ahmed’s father

taken for 94 days

a constellation

of blue and purple

bruises across

his dilapidated frame

no charge, no trial

no lawyer present

his family has accounts

and statistics, broken limbs

and cracked ribs

but the puffed cheeks

from tattooed tears

tell more stories

than words can hold

every neighborhood affected

every city pillaged of men

administrative detention

begins and never ends

II.

studying abroad

father caged at home

divest! roars from his diaphragm

he builds mock checkpoints

erects wall panels so students

can witness a hint

of his existence

Ahmed’s father remains

under administrative detention

  no convenient resolution

  to end this poem with

    no Facebook status

    tweet or Instagram post

    to unclasp shackles

thousands went on hunger strike

and will again, until walls crumble

prisons fall and something arises

out of the ashes of this misery

and on that day, we will write

and scream and dabke in squares

and race to rooftops and celebrate

what this world can bring

if we push it to the brink

right now a young man

is without a father

that bellowing laugh

that joyous grin

that warm embrace

his hero

who starved himself

to raise a mirror

up to the world

once again

Say Their Names

I.

terrorist, savage, Islamofascist

create boxes to put Muslim men in

ghetto, thug, gangbanger

create cages to surround Black men with

hero, liberator, savior

create pedestals to put occupiers on

II.

life taker

bomb dropper

back breaker

cut, dice, smash

kick, squeeze, knead

strip families

trash, slash

piss on Korans

stress, twist

put

on

knees

locked, shocked

waterboarded up

killed men

pumped fists

waved flags

burned bodies

buried bodies

repeat cycle

III.

NATO militants

drone murder daily

dropping broken consciences

on villages

filled with civilians

Americans shopping

corpses littered

with shrapnel

spread like

Christmas dinner

IV.

42 Yemenis

cruising missiles

Abudallah

Saleha

Ibrahim

Asmaa

Salma

Fatima

Sumia

37

30

13

9

4 

3

1

father

wife

son

daughter

daughter

daughter

daughter

say their names

like Newtown children

say their names

al Bayda, Shejaiya

Chicago, Staten Island

say their names

like haunting whispers

say their names

so we

never repeat

never lash out again

never forget the boxes

the innocent have been

put in

#InsideOut

building bombed, beams through flesh

buried under rubble

suffocated to death

but only beheading is barbaric to the West

#Gaza

♦

a smashed window always rings louder

in the media’s ears than the clacking

of six rounds emptied into

a Black teen’s body

#Ferguson

♦

beat so bad her

insides went silent

Muslim, covered

  with blood

no

love or light found

on this Parisian block

#HateCrime

45 degrees

clear to the sky

  still would terrorize

soldiers and police aim for the head

chest. kneecaps. ligaments. debilitate. disable

bilin. nabi saleh. oakland. athens. #teargas

♦

first date

dad’s cologne

scenting his skin

heart beating fast

house in the distance

stopped   frisked   groped

routine checkpoint

blue bruises   white cops

protect quotas   serve the system

dealers of discrimination in uniform

#StopAndFrisk

1000-pound

  bombs

don’t inquire about

the sexuality

of victims below

#pinkwashing

♦

repackaged racism and domination

of natives may mask the messenger

but it doesn’t transform the parcel

#LiberalZionism

♦

transphobic feminists   misogynistic socialists

anti-Black leftists   ableist Palestine activists

selective justice   isn’t a path to liberation

#NotJustUs

Mourning in Cairo

what is life

when shoes

are made

of cinderblocks?

when elbows

and eyelids

pull to the

ground

like gravity

is collecting

a debt

silence is suffocating

sleep unsettling

movement rigid

haunting memories

of what was

and isn’t anymore

never imagined

that phone call

never played out

the conversation

or lack of conversation

knees buckling

stomach dropping

beads of sweat

racing down

his forehead

fumbling with keys

panic after panic

eyes darting back

and forth, crooked

        picture

      framing

    their

  embrace

he stumbled

into the mosque

shirt untucked

hands shaking

senses overcome

by the stench of death

couldn’t process

mothers tearing

at faces and chests

broken-down neighbors

assaulted by anguish

white shrouds covering

rows of wrapped bodies

one

after

another

forced to identify his kin

what was left after the bullets

got through with him

he slowly lay down

curled into a ball beside his boy

hoping to hear one word

feel one heartbeat

and began

to whisper:

I am here

I am here now

I am not going anywhere

I am the wound

inside your flesh

Goldstone

a wanton act

deliberate and premeditated

raw sewage lagoons struck

broader pattern of destruction

not justified by military necessity

this mission concludes

report read like poetry

  the drumbeat

  of war crimes

human shields

armed forces behind

the practice has (not)

been discontinued

called you a traitor

self-hater

Jew-basher

anti-Israel Nazi

scumbag

aide of terror

  called yourself

a Zionist

crumbled

under criticism

not a jurist

      a plagiarist

of weakened will

one small issue

1,400 problems

too many survivors

Samouni family testimony

huddled on instruction

  died one by one

  as shells hit buildings

  concrete slabs smothering

  trapped relatives

you became

the report

so they could

shell you too

don’t need Goldstone

not one glimmer of light

needs to be taken off

the smiling faces who rebuild

what you tried to demolish

in the Washington Post

and New York Times

the scars don’t go away

the bomb blasts

are never taken back

when the smoke clears

history will shine on

where you stood

what deals you made

whose lives you brokered

you will be remembered

an empty shell

rewriting reality to fit

an acceptable narrative

Tone It Down

you should be funny on stage

tell jokes, soften your message

everyone likes humor

you’re normal in conversation

but your poems are so . . . angry

angry?

(breathe)

slow down

don’t cause a scene

cut to platitudes

neatly fit packages

of entertainment

to make him laugh

  hahahahaha

Barack Obama

just murdered

a wedding party

full of Muslims

  hahahahaha

that mother

hunched over her son’s

dismembered body in Gaza

  tore   divots

  into her skin

just so she could feel life again

let me put on

a clown costume

  sit you on my knee

  and tell you a story

one that you could

never relate to

  because your family

  never went through it

once upon a time . . .

during the ethnic cleansing

of Palestine

once upon a time . . .

birth defects went up

500% in Fallujah

once upon a time . . .

they beat his body so badly

he bled internally

carved raghead

into his bare thigh

and pissed on his

lacerated limbs

you said nothing

did nothing

is that what you

want me to say?

that you place so little

value

  on human life

that I need to put on

a clown costume

to entertain you?

let you know

how this country was founded

who it was founded for

and how we both still benefit

from that privilege?

no, that’s not what you want

you want a funny story

so here’s one:

taxpayer

1,000-pound dollar signs

drop

on eight-story buildings

reservations aren’t something

you make before dinner

leaflets littering the sky

mean you may be

grieving relatives

by morning

here’s another scream:

artillery shells

bury humans alive

refugees die in camps

they were pushed into

grandmothers can still

feel the rigid earth

that dug into their feet

as they scrambled north

does that make you feel uncomfortable?

like cluster bombs stealing the legs

of children in South Lebanon?

how much strength does it take

to climb atop the world

and not give a damn?

no, guy that came up to me after the show

and asked me why I couldn’t be more like

the apolitical Jewish comic

that came on after me

no, I can’t be that guy

and no

you wouldn’t be asking me this question

if half your family drowned

rushing to get on boats

as people fired from behind

this is not a poem

this is a reminder

to all sloppy critics

who come up to me

after a show

slavery isn’t funny

feminism isn’t angry

and the dumb crap

that comes out of your mouth

isn’t ok

just cuz you end it with a smile

but if you are really

in the mood for critique

do yourself a favor

look inward

keep that finger pointed

and work on your own shit

because I would rather be labeled

an angry Brown poet

than be an apathetic American

who turned away just long enough

to never actually have to give a damn

Peace Process

we are told to come to the table

no chair, no utensils, no napkin

designated for us

we are told of a feast

but we are not eating

have not tasted flesh

only crumbs that fell

as the biscuits

were gorged

we are told that after dinner

we will tango, but our ankles

have been shackled

and we have no room to move

we are told

that we will meet a broker

but this dinner party is full

only friends remain

and we have been culled

as festive game

The Grin behind the Tears

the first time Samir

was arrested

he was 14

he tells stories more vivid

than movie screens

syllables like paintbrush

strokes on empty canvases

pulls you in deeper

with shifting intonations

rattles off torture like a shopping list

fists and spit to the face

naked body threatened with rape

face submerged under water

tied up and beaten

electric shocks to the body

thinking death is imminent

sleep deprivation, music pulsating

isolation regular, stress positions always

blindfolded and battered, bound to a chair

knocked over and punched unconscious

wakes chained, beaten again

lifts up his shirt: calves to stomach

to shoulders a human rights report

considers himself lucky, sordid stories

of sexual abuse, objects used

no prosecution

no policies ended

no one steps in to stop it

the warden is the judge, the civilian

the settler, the politician, the police chief

there is no law under occupation

Samir works with children

reading stories, leading workshops

mapping programs, always teaching

always building

he says to me:

no matter how tight Israel thinks its grip is

the bullets, the bombs, the checkpoints

the UN vetoes, the congressional applause

these children are more powerful than F-16s

more assured than US military aid

they will climb walls, skirt roadblocks, dodge tear gas

they will unravel injustice by their very existence

in every breath they take, every wedding that’s held

every newborn they bring into this world, they know it

Zionists know it, the occupation’s days are numbered

Bobby

They have nothing in their whole imperial arsenal

that can break the spirit of one Irishman

who doesn’t want to be broken.

—Bobby Sands

always cold

blue bruised feet

and scarred back

shivering hands

grabbed for more material

barely draping thinned-out shoulders

crows staggered outside prison bars

nourished on maggots you threw

broken but never broken

so many hands coming at you

you didn’t know what was baton

and what was fist

a terrorist

stripped rights, beatings

blocked-out letters, screened visits

inhumanity seeped through

your letters on toilet paper

they stole from you daily

clattering keys, voices

of A, B, C in the distance

as you peered through

a slender crevice

to warn others

died three years later

on hunger strike

insides deprived

conscience replenished

the new empire

gave you no proper eulogy

terrorists can never be harmonized

not until the graves are filled

and liberation is long past

we too would fight our own

war on terror across a dozen nations

tearing apart citizens at home

and stuffing them into H Blocks

in Cuba, downtown Manhattan

internment facilities

secret black sites from

Lithuania to Thailand

what we learn from history

is to repeat it, build upon its cruelty

shape and tailor its brutality

for new systems

Bobby’s body

buried like many others

  not just a mural

  or poster or reference

a voice lifting up souls

freezing, tired, hungry

in cold dark cells

but not broken

even in death, not broken

they could build a prison cell

strip away mobility

carve into flesh

but they could never win

that’s the beauty of justice

it knows no sympathy

for oppression

A Closing Bow

I.

standing on the subway

a Black dancer, no more than 20

smile beaming off the doors

politely asks a white man

no less than 50

to please stride to the side

it is 2 p.m. on a Tuesday

congestion is light

seats are still available

but needless to say

where the white man is standing

a bit of room is required

for the dance routine

the white man doesn’t reply

stays stoic, face unseen

by the rest of the car

the young dancer

graciously asks him once more

to make room for the extravaganza

that’s about to take place

tosses in a joke for good measure

in keeping with affable displays

since the last subway stop

the older man remains grim

and curtly replies no

unshaken

the dancer carries on

navigates

around

white obstruction

tries to find room

for his feet

in this crowded path

a microcosm

on a Tuesday afternoon

blocks paths

refuses to budge

stays curt and grim

from the attitudinal

to the structural

there is no statistic for these

manifestations of racism

no comprehensive study

where is the physical violence

the handcuffs, the bloodied baton

the bruises, the marks of the hate crime?

where is the video, the perfectly placed scene

the media would seek to discredit?

II.

kids I went to high school with

go on about the good deeds

of cops

the media focuses on

the bad apples, they say

a Black body is pulverized

every 28 hours

the barrel is rotten

I reply

why is it always about

Black people? the skeptic inquires

why was slavery always

about Black people

Jim Crow

separate water fountains

lynchings, Emmett Till

and Barack Obama’s

birth certificate?

why are white people

never the victims

of these crimes

I respond

we are past that stuff

the colorblind apologist

implores

as if the dancer’s skin color

on the subway didn’t transform

that white man into an

immovable object

he didn’t have to say the N word

it was on the tip of his eyeballs

beaming through the car

post-race ace cards

in society’s back pocket

the dancer just swiveled on by

collecting contributions

overflowing in a hat

stopped in front of the man

to let his earnings

dangle for a moment

as if a finishing touch

on the production

and in a closing bow

the subway doors

stretched open

like a curtain call

and with all the grace

and confidence

in his performance

the dancer disappeared

into the crowd

on the platform

Layover in Palestine

I.

on a balcony in Bethlehem

Abu Iyad spoke slowly

in Arabic

as if a typewriter

were catching every

letter and intonation

his wrinkled fingers

grappled with a coffee cup

contemplative and precise

contours of the Nakba

mapped into the history

of his face

we stood in front of

chopped-down olive trees

a stump-encrusted hillside

stripped of its fertility

barbed wire

choking the periphery

banned from land

by occupation forces

who kicked down

his door and abducted

him and his son

II.

feeling like a tourist

outside my own skin

passing, never present

wanting to touch everything

I came in contact with

in case my palms never

pressed down on

this earth again

every trip like a last goodbye

entry never guaranteed

visa never guaranteed

nothing ever guaranteed

what is the purpose of your visit?

where was your father born?

come with me

put that down

take that off

spread your legs

you understand that

this is for security?

you can go

  words I thought

  I would never hear again

a kid with peach fuzz

and a grimace

chest puffed

and trigger-finger itchy

  what hollowed drones

  humans become

got through and felt lucky

got through and felt ashamed

got through and felt ashamed

that I felt lucky

the empire’s passport

burning a hole

in my back pocket

just want to sit and be present

feel what it is like to be home

without someone pulling

on my shoulder

taking me away

Palestine stays

under a microscope

  always communal

never ours

it is exhausting

struggle, liberation

a campaign, a Facebook post

an infographic, constantly searching

for the right words to say

the right message to bring

when all I want is to feel

present in this space

take in this breath

and exist here

if only

for a moment

Credits

My deepest appreciation goes to the editors of the following publications, who first showcased versions of poems featured in this collection:

“Until It Isn’t.” Originally published in Letters for Palestine, edited by Vijay Prashad (Verso, 2015)

“Refuse,” “Peace Process,” and “Normalize This!” Originally published in Wasafiri 80 (Winter 2014)

About the author

Remi Kanazi is a poet, writer, and organizer based in New York City. He is the author of Poetic Injustice: Writings on Resistance and Palestine and the editor of Poets for Palestine. His political commentary has been featured by news outlets throughout the world, including Salon, Al Jazeera English, and BBC Radio. Kanazi has toured hundreds of venues across the United States, Canada, Europe, and the Middle East, and he has appeared in the Palestine Festival of Literature as well as Poetry International. He is a Lannan Residency Fellow and an advisory committee member for the Palestinian Campaign for the Academic and Cultural Boycott of Israel.