To be a Palestinian mother,
you must learn some simple things:
how to hold your wounded child until he sheds
his last drop of blood;
crafting words to turn a child into a man
when the soldiers wake him for arrest;
how to prepare a filling meal for ten
when bakeries, malls, and restaurants are bombed;
how to tell delightful stories through long nights of shelling;
explaining to a three-year-old, the absence
of the martyred father and detained sister;
erecting colorful tents from cushion covers;
finding innovative ways to clean blood;
rejoicing that they arrested the child but didn’t kill him;
how to dig graves and build graveyards;
how to walk by a tank with your five children
and cross the path to exile with three suitcases and seven souls.
You have to be a cat
a crocodile
a plane
a protective shield
the roof of a tent
the stars when the power is out
a poem when even tears dry
you must be everything—the water and the rock.
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