I wake in morning,
in the ruins of myself,
in a tangle and un-
tangle of small destructions,
(and greater ones)
and these destructions,
they run machine-like, calculated,
soldier-march their way
into the roadwork of my grandfather’s veins
I wake in morning,
to black tea and all the newspapers,
to the stories of Nablus, of back-home
of home, he says, that is much more home
than this skeleton one will ever be
my grandfather,
he speaks of dust, of bombs,
of the houses they took and all the bodies,
but my grandfather, he also speaks
of weddings, of singing and of fields,
of lemon farms and honey,
he speaks of so much honey.
I wake in mourning
for the buds of his laughter,
for a home that is mine – and not,
for the olive trees growing in cemeteries,
in between all the stones and bodies, bodies
bodies
(the only way they know how to)