Funeral march

for Mustafa Tamimi 

This land is a slaveship built of prisoner’s

      dreams

            you can taste the fire of her tears,

the panting sunlight washes over the razor wire,

      colder than the hands that catch it.

You can’t find dreams here

because the walls that surround you are

      too high 

listen to the muezzin:

      Allahu Akbar 

your body turns to air and you float

      above the crowd,

      the weeping crowd, the crowd.

You think, “don’t bring shitwater and teargas

            to a funeral, have you no humanity left?” 

those factories back in Jamestown, Pennsylvania

      already tore out your eyes, though

      you’ve never seen them and never will. 

Habiballah, you will leave this country of

      onions and bloodstained flags behind,

      the village buildings and olive trees

      will kiss your face one last time, will

      pray you don’t forget them, you don’t

      forget the way the fields look in

      the December sun,

            with broken glass,

            tiny flowers,

            and rubber bullets. 

The barbed wire guides the light to the gardens,

      the empty light of peace –

      here in Nabi Saleh, the gate

      to the highway is closed,

      the soldiers aim at the villagers,

      the cries become prayers become tears,

      you drift above the echoes and disappear.