Attentively, Primetime-News watchers listened
to anchor woman declare:
“The video we’re about to play
may contain: Graphic Images.
Use your discretion. keep your kids away.”
White sneakers, washed jeans, orange T-shirt.
Young boy appears; a smile captured his face.
His face, half baby, half shaded by some
low hanging branches of an old olive tree.
From the shadow of things it’s late afternoon.
The scene is neither raucous, nor serene.
But..Wait! Wait! No! No! Anxious bullets won’t wait.
Boom Boom Boom Boom. Four. Could be more.
“Yummauh!” the boy cries– an orphaned cry.
His voice- freshly labored, ruptured voice.
The young boy- about fourteen- falls face down.
Body curled like half dried leaf exiled from
grandpa’s hundred-year old, green olive grove.
Boy falls to the red-brown soil by the tree.
Boy smiled no more. Cried no more. Bled some more.
Hurting young boy! Oil-skin, little teen.
In combat gear, a young soldier swaggers
all around the – all alone- little teen.
Clutched in both hands -maybe- an M-16.
With the shiny black boot on his big right foot,
the soldier swings a kick against the young boy’s neck;
Tender neck. Boy’s neck. Bloodied neck.
A kick– A kick– Another killer kick–
before it’s blurred where boot and neck had met.
Blurred or not! Little boy’s head clearly rocked
as psychotic blows competed to root
for soldier’s sadistic shiny black boot.
Poor little boy. Hurting. Sweet little teen.
Maybe, his unabashed mother has been
waiting; lovingly waiting– to give him
his evening kiss, the moment he came home.
Maybe, she was baking him a birthday cake,
or making his sweet tea with sage. Who knows?
Back on air; anchor woman with short black hair.
The cringe on her face ruined her delicate look.
“Oh God! This was hard to watch,” voiced in pain.
“In reality, the sheer brutality
couldn’t be shared in its totality!
We had to blur it where
boy’s blood started to wear
soldier’s shiny black boot.” Woman sighs.
“Of course, my heart goes out to the young victim
who’s been traumatized, terrorized– perhaps while
his mother has been waiting to give him
his usual hug and kiss when he comes home.
Or while baking him a birthday cake.
Or making him some Cafe Latte. Who knows?”
Pretty woman with wide blue eyes gives it a pause,
“I say, Civilized Nations must come together
and protect vanguards of liberty and freedom
from the hard to watch- hard to wash, thick, slimy blood
which assaults and red stains their shiny black boots.”
She ends, sucking on her full red lips.
Closer to heaven, high on a mountain village,
olive trees- young and old- shimmered in moonshine
when the little boy had, at last, made it home.
Not for a slice of cake. Not a sip of tea,
but, for his last hug and kiss from his
up-all-night, olive-skin, widowed mother.
Kisses; a dozen for every bullet-hole tunneled
in his head, neck, and yet-hairless chest.
Unblurred kisses, where boot and neck had met.
“last kiss and a hug. Please!
Last kiss and a hug!” Cried the mother,
“before the graves bring him and his father
together. ” Cried the mate-less mother.
“Yummah! Yah Yummah!” Cried the child-less mother,
“The hole-y spirit of sinful bullets
at last, brought father and son together.
Now, they, by the roots of the big olive tree,
where the dead and the living crisscrossed,
are together.” Cried the mother.
As boy was laid to rest, clung to his chest
his orange T-shirt, which in bold green said:
“Let My Olive Tree Die Or Live Free.”
Mother’s son. Father’s son. People’s son. Olive skin
Filisteen’s LIVING TEEN.
Inspired by the story of Orwah Hammad, 14 yrs.