I never met Grandfather, but I can see him
close to a well in Yaffa. The forehead he's wiping
is a glittering, wrinkled map of the past
His olive-wood cane leans
against an orange tree.
I can see birds the color of earth
when it rains.
I can watch them
harvest oranges, pile them
on roofs of houses
in the refugee camp.
Where have you been? Grandfather asks me,
his voice getting
weary of
plowing the thick, muddy,
soil of language.
My arms are down, too tired to lift
even to say hi.
I have been pulling up buckets of water
from the camp's well,
searching for words
for my epic.
My grandfather stands still close to the well.
He never abandoned it, even after the Nakba,
even after death.
His hands pour water
down into the well.
In the refugee camp,
where land is strewn with
debris, where air chokes with rage,
my harvest is yet to arrive,
my seeds only sprout on this page.
Toha .
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