She asks me what palestine is like-
I see and hear and smell my answer.
She asks me what palestine is like-
and I see
Brown almond eyes with eyelids creasing and folding
trying to understand, reflecting on me trying to understand them.
Brown furniture with weathered feet that have left a stamp on an otherwise pristine tile floor
She asks me what palestine is like-
and I hear
The sonorous sound of salat al-fajr ringing in the air from the glowing green prayer tower, accompanying me through my third restless night.
Bouncing repeatedly in my chest touching every bone, muscle tissue and vein that will listen. And they listen-
She asks me what palestine is like-
and I smell
The wafted scent of the woman passing me by in the street
she’d never know
She’d never know how she brought my knees to meet the pavement below me
She’d never know the war of images in my head battling to be seen,
Of my sido’s weathered hands tending to his bees, the white linens of Shu’fat dancing in the sky and children playing amongst rubble.
A smell I know better than I know myself.
Mar Sub Laban
She asks me
2024
