You've never
been to Palestine
but beyond doubt in a past life, you
were born and raised in Khan Yunis.
You lived near the red and golden antique shop,
walked down the quaint streets
of Rafah, made friends with a curly-haired,
sun-beamy boy from Deir el-Balah.
In the mornings
You ran barefoot through the olive
groves, raced blue morpho flocks,
prayed under the mosaic dome
of St. George basilica, drank
cardamom-spiced coffee
on a white-balustraded balcony
in Birzeit.
Because now it feels like losing home again.
Because now you're hundreds of
miles away from Gaza, yet flinching
at the air strikes, grieving
with that emerald-eyed schoolgirl
mourning her father.
She's shedding your tears, screaming
through your throat, her heart is
shaking within your ribcage.
You have never stepped
into Jabalia, but
your eyes know the buildings,
pockmarked by bullets and questions
and this wound is familiar.
