by John Hirschman
1.
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
Kippour
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
organized
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
incinerated
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.
2.
Dilapidated shacks
or even tents
in which we live
all crazy now
without a capitol
and filling with
aparteid.
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
activists,
sister
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.
