I often think about Gaza and War. I took a walk through the slums the other day, and looked around. There will always be richer and poorer. This is how things are.
WHEN WATER TASTED AS GOOD AS MY PALESTINIAN FRIEND SAID IT WOULD
They removed the thermostats,
And made us pay for every cup of water we used.
I was standing in the rain when it happened,
With a white friend and a
Servant.
We did the mud,
Rivulets of grime,
Marveled at the homemade architecture,
And heaved
Big
Sighs.
I asked him why there were
Water tanks with signs that read
‘Twenty shillings a litre.’
He said,
‘They sell water here too.’
Scottish men protect
Single Malt Whiskey,
Welsh women,
The language they speak,
My Palestinian friend once told me,
Water,
Israelis keep.
And then there are those we send to war. Every country has them. They come back with eyes of glass, and we look away.
NOTHING BREAKS FOREVER – PART FOUR
The oil drum was,
In the middle of the road,
And stained red like rust,
From the blood of,
The marine who,
Had just arrived,
And was crouching,
Behind it,
Holding his gun.
He had been on his way,
Across the courtyard,
And been shot at,
And wounded.
The courtyard was,
Flat,
And baked by the sun,
And cracked in giant yellow pieces,
And was alive with the spit,
Of hard, angry, bullets.
Clouds of black smoke from,
The burning fuel of,
Downed helicopters,
Drifted in,
In big patches,
Were disturbed by,
Eddies,
And currents,
And became,
Small tornados,
That sucked the dogs tags,
Off dead men’s chests.
NOTHING BREAKS FOREVER – PART THREE
You do not win a war,
And laugh,
The Sergeant told me,
Through clear blue eyes.
He had,
His rough hand,
In mine,
And I was crying.
I could smell the dust,
Coming off his boots,
And taste the,
Fuel in his mouth.
No one asks to be a hero,
Though sometimes it works out that way,
You fight for the man standing next to you.
When we bring them home, do we embrace them? Do we say, we understand?
NOTHING BREAKS FOREVER – PART FIVE
What is a,
Post-traumatic episode?
The burst of a machine gun?
The bullet-ping off body-armour?
The dear girl sucking on the,
Lollipop that,
Killed her when,
Her family,
Believing,
It was offered by,
An American Soldier and been,
Too readily accepted,
Strung her up,
High,
On an olive tree,
To teach her friends,
That sugar must not,
Be imported?
Or the rushing gasp,
Of a lover,
As he releases his seed,
And then his dying wish,
Into your cold, clammy hand?
Perhaps the divorce that arrives a few weeks after your return,
After that thing at the park,
You under a car,
At the crack of a base-ball bat,
Or,
Not being combat ready,
Not standing knee deep in,
Motor oil,
Shoving against the,
Armoured troop carrier,
That’s refused to go any further,
Is that Post-traumatic?
What is a post,
On a blog,
On living past
Trauma?
Where do I go,
If all I got is,
The car wouldn’t start this morning,
And my bank accounts’ run dry?
I will wait for the post to change,
As it invariably does,
Post war,
Post eleven p.m.
When I will meet,
zdapslim33,
On the internet,
-my best friend-
And discuss his problematic tooth.
In the end, it seems, only our mothers can make it alright.
give me
goodseed
and i’ll plant it by the roadside.
give me water and
i will tend it,
goodseed,
grow it
give me
laughter
and i will turn it,
and live it with goodheart,
and love it in
goodlight,
like softlight
on bone.
