We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond. ― Gwendolyn Brooks
Mahmoud Darwish, 1941-2008
On the road to Nablus I think of you,
your wrecked heart blooming
on rocky hills, a horse’s shadow alone
in a field. Anemones spread
in resolute red— in warning or welcome
it’s too early to say.
A candy store pocked with bullet holes
churns with cement mixers,
makeshift machines coating almonds
in sweet liquid. The shopkeeper says,
Taste this after all you see. In a season
of unripe things, I bite into green almonds,
taxi to the mountain top to watch the village
long in the valley. Gusts of pigeons
blow against stone— all I have been taught
smacks against the rockface.
As a child in synagogue I fit a quarter
into a cardboard slot to plant a tree
in Israel, millions of coins
now tangled roots reaching
for each other in the underworld
that knows nothing of walls.
Listen as Janlori Goldman reads "Where Should the Birds Fly After the Last Sky?"