"Relentless" by
“Stop writing about war,” he said. “Stop
writing about borders and blood. Stop writing
about revolutions and revolvers, about cities,
rooftops with antennas and snipers.
Stop writing about bread
and barefoot children with their dark
skin, their hair blond from too much sun.
Stop telling the story of how your friend
bought hats for them and gave them out
from her car window, saying put this on
put this on. Stop telling
the story of the gates
your grandfather painted on his wall
to remember, and the gates he painted
on his heart to forget. For God’s sake stop
writing about religion, I’m tired
of minarets and crosses, even the prayers
are tired and want to sleep. Just write
some shade for me to sit in.”
So I drew him a tree without roots
and a street with enormous wings and said, “Here
is a tree that cannot be uprooted
and a street that will take flight
before it explodes.” And I drew myself
some mud, two strong legs, a clothesline
upon which to hang my drenched words,
to see what this sunlight would make of them,
and black birds on a fence
like the pattern of a kufiya.
This poem originally appeared in Rusted Radishes
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