From the Sky
After Lorca
When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.
Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).
Teens are writing love letters
under an orange tree
(from the sky I can read them).
Soldiers are cocking new rifles
at the checkpoint
(from the sky I can hear them).
Under fire, death and water
are brewing in the kitchen
(from the sky I can smell them!).
When I die, bury me in the sky,
I said, for now, it is quiet—
no one owns it and no one is claiming to.
