Handwritten Bombs

Handwritten Bombs

(“Their land also is full of idols. They worship the work of their own hands, that which their own fingers have made.” Isaiah 2:8)

I would share my air with you,
I would bring tankers of water,
I would shield you from the handwritten bombs
sent in the name of the Lord.
I would take down the flag that flies
like a demon in the skies.
I would share the ground with you that
has been denied
by neighbors near to you.

Come, let us break bread together
in the middle of the rubble,
while the missiles whine like spoiled children
looking for a place to dig craters between
the playgrounds and hospitals.

The stones were here before we were,
the rivers too.
The continents once connected,
the chaos burned and froze and
and thawed
and we think we own it all.

I would share my spare with you,
I would bring my last bottle of wine,
I would throw my last arrow at the fiery beasts
sent in the name of the Lord.
I would dig, I would hyperventilate,
I would exchange my blood for yours;
my time, my place, my kitchen, my bed.
I would learn to play your songs,
the same songs
that haunt every refugee, every ghetto,
every sliver of land owned by no one.

I would wait by the shore where you once
played with three cousins
before the missiles flew. Now two of you
walk in circles underground.

I would enwrap you with sand warmed
in summer. And we would stand, slightly and darkly,
while soldiers and gods keep the census, but we,
we remember the names.