They died 100 at a time.
Haganah with turrets trained
to mow the lawn
& cut down family trees.
They pulled their sisters up by knotted spines,
wiped them off on their skin.
Remember, they said,
North is always Palestine
& all at once they knew
they were not sanctified.
& so I’ve been thinking
this is cloud bursting
this eternal thirsting for a North
where all the love was wasted
& they still see black hair
desert-dancing
from unmarked graves
in a new-born state—
their Promised Land.
But for me, it’s just a dry bread
too hard to swallow.
& now they’re captured by the undertow
from river to sea
freedom, a soot on their clothes
with bones, venom,
teeth in rows.
But is it them, they fear?
Why?
just pour a little earth
& they were never here.
About the Creator
Emily Adams
Poet, essayist, photographer, and animal rights activist. I write about ethics, parenthood, and the strange, beautiful experience of being alive.
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