by John Hirschman


Shema here,

shema hear me,

a child born

and raised originally

in Superman’s

capitol of Death,

whose rule is trumpery.

This stack of

matzohs I fling

one after another

across your Rosh

Hashanah clear

to your Yom


like a paroxysm

of memory,

a matzohgraphy

of unforgettable

irony of ironies:

you, who were

so holacausted

by the nazis

have created

the largest

concentration camp

in the world,

in Gaza, yes,

we in Gaza,

when Sari Shobaki 18,

Amir Al-Nimra, 15,

Louay Kahn, 16,

Kami Halas, 14,

Nasser Shurrab, 18,

Louay Hasan, 13


a series of non-violent

protests calling for

the return

of Palestinians

exiled all

over the world,

you murdered them

in cold State blood

or sniped their

legs or slingshot

arms off and—

irony of the ovens

where the nazis


so many of

your families—

those New York

settler thugs

celebrating a

wedding were

crying out:

“Ali’s on the grill”

referring to

Ali Dawbsheh,

whose 18

month-old body

they’d burned

to death.


Dilapidated shacks

or even tents

in which we live

all crazy now

without a capitol

and filling with


Gaza, we’re Gaza

who may rainbow:

Dareen Tatour,

you magnificent,

“terrorist” poet,

and you,

Ahed Tamimi

who physically  

took on a couple

of Israel’s cops,

you of a family

of grassroots



of Razan Al-Najar,

that glorious

21 year-old

who gave her

life helping to

nurse the wounded

in the protests.

We don’t hole up.

We stuff malice,

be terror cool,

steer no one wrong,

even as arms are torn,

even as wounded legs

are smoking.