June 6, 1967
The sky was blanket of explosions he knew better
than to mistake for fireworks. Six years old. Surrounded
by men who bled red, green, white, and black. He
only remembers the sound of the blasts, the smell of
fire burning in his nostrils. For days, they slept in caves
cuddled between mountains. If love is a loaf of bread, a
coarse hand feeding you into the night, a yallah ya cedo
pushing you to safety, don’t tell me we Palestinians
don’t know how to love. If love is teeth stained with
mulberries after days of migration, their purple juice
coursing through the crevices of his small hands,
don’t tell me we Palestinians don’t know how to hunger.
Baba, your love has never been easy. You tell me to be aqwaa,
but I could never stand as tall as you.
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