Sunday, May 13, 2012

"pretending to be a poet requires a great deal of ambition and trust in one's lying skills"

The stickiness of skin that glues your arm to
your side + your thighs to one another,
the drips of human adhesive,
the tears of an overheated soul.

The sun that does not slap or scream
but is always there. In that hole in the
sky that is carved out for its
yellow flesh.
Just one scoop of yellow ice cream.
In its bowl of blue.

Back blisters + squinted eyes that speak
its language. Lingua franca.
A cooked landscape and an eternal dry mouth, no matter
the Hebrew or Arabic that comes from it.
Just a monolingual sun,
who signs the same song of heat.

A sea of blue.
A sea of galilee.
At times the blue of the sky is the only
ocean to suck on. A hydrating blue that
teases you. Invites you to dive in.
Other times it is the blue of the holy waters,
dancing on a map or telling you to tourist it there.
"And please, bring the fanny pack," it says.
But most other times, it is the blue of the people.
The blue of the Pali eyes.

Sometimes they are swamps: heavy + tired +
resembling the grey of their hair.
The grey of the situation.
But other times, they are seas.
Swimming with the blue of a crayon
and being oceans of optimism.
Mirroring the blue of the heavens,
Their eyes are made of skies.

Blue and brown.
Skies and desert.
Eyes and skin.
This is Israel/Palestine.

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