Israelis here
stay away,
so I swim
toward you
and with you
away from the underwater’s
ugly currents.
Ronit
I shouldn’t
but I will,
I can’t
but I must,
your politics
a plague
I have to stay away from;
there must be a better match,
yet I look at you
and you could be my brother
my friend
my lover.
Jamil
My head says
this is dangerous territory,
yet each night
the cloud of my pillow
takes us to a place
where your eyes and mouth
invite me
for supper,
so I stay
not away
my sister
friend
lover.
A Day in the Desert:
Ronit Texts
My cousin will drive us
to Mitzpe Ramon
where we can shed our skins
at last.
Remember:
you’re Israeli
if someone from the army
should stop us.
It will be
terrifically hot.
A Day in the Desert
Ommi says,
“you’re going where with Caliph?”
“The desert.”
“Why?”
“Just to see it.”
She mutters
beneath her breath
and cries
“It is so hot
and there are so many Jews there.”
Joined Bodies
We can do it in the desert.
No one will see us.
No one can smell us.
We probably smell the same
and taste the same.
Let’s try.
Now.
My cousin says
she will take a walk
and swears she won’t tell
Abba.
Land: Ronit’s Ghazal*
A wrinkle upon the foot of my land
no need for shoes upon my land.
My holy forefathers prayed for this land
they wandered like nomads on their land,
now you dare to enter
on my land,
now I bid you entry
inside my land.
Built of Bones:
Jamil’s Ghazal
There is nothing but the body
built of bones,
when I find myself beside you
I rise like bones;
from the dead and my desire
it grows like bones.
I dream of you daily
where I’m in your bones.
They can bury us together
and we’ll share bones.
Water:
Ronit’s Ghazal
In such dry land, some water
while I dream of tasting your water,
my body withers in brutal summer
so what I need is water,
you say you’re always parched
and yearn for water,
but if my body’s yours
you share my water,
and if your body’s mine
I’ll need no water.
River:
Jamil’s Ghazal
My nickname is Jordan
I was named for a river.
My Abi doesn’t know me
since I feel like a river.
These Jerusalem streets are hot
so I pine for a river.
My body is even hotter
so I cry for a river.
When Ronit invades my sleep
she crosses into my river.
Desert:
Ronit’s Ghazal
There is a whirlwind of sand in the desert
but I find your hand in the desert.
My bones are brittle
until I see you in the desert,
and I am withered
but then I dance in the desert.
The air is hot and heavy
but I do not care in the desert.
My body sweats a storm
which I give you in the desert.
In a Tomb:
Jamil’s Ghazal
When I do not see you
my heart is in a tomb.
The whisper of your words
I carry in my tomb.
The shadow of your smile
creeps out from the tomb,
the warmth of your body
without it, I am a tomb.
If I can’t be with you
bury me in the tomb.
Fences
You can’t cross my fence
my land,
there is a fence
a gate
a body
that separates us,
but I can cross yours
walk the streets
like a coyote
a Jew and an Arab.
I dream
of escape
into the desert
where we look the same:
two bronzed statues
no fences
no land
naked with the sand.
Remember
the other day?
Jamil’s Fear
What if I’m put in a tomb
and there is no air to breathe;
what if Ronit never comes
and I sleep with my ancestors’ bones,
should I shriek like a mandrake torn out of earth,
should I curse this land
we both own?
Ronit’s Fear
“My only love
sprung from my only hate!”*
That is garbage
since I’m watching
dates grow
in his land
in my land,
imaginary place—
our land
where petals pray
for hate to perish
where we drink mint tea
together
hours
in a café.
Through the Window
Angry wasps
seek vengeance
under the cow-shed
in the red sky,
as Abi
grabs the mother
smothered in grief
while her baby wails
wildly,
yet I know
there is a better way.
Ronit has shown me
the nest opens
if you allow it,
and it is possible
to lift your head above it
and see a sky
without rockets.
Leaving:
Ronit Speaks
What are the streaks of light
in the clouds
parting in the east?
Night is over
and day is coming.
If I stay here
I’ll die.
Away:
Ronit Dreams
I’ve watched our letters
collide,
they are so different.
Your language
stutters syllables
in my mouth.
I can’t always read
the bones in your skull;
I’m in exile
don’t you know?
Good thing I know some Arabic
and you know
more Hebrew.
But now
I’m ready
to migrate
somewhere
anywhere
away
away
away.
Safe in My Skin:
Jamil
Let’s erect monuments
new ones
no more edific
es of sorrow.
Let the sheep
dig their feet
in the sand,
while I have
dervish dreams,
am ready
to be home
safely in my skin.
Imah Knows
“I know why you run
to the clinic,” Imah says,
“it is that boy”
and I say nothing.
Inside
I tremble
for the wolf,
my Abba,
who could
pounce
on Jamil,
never take me
to work with him again.
I cannot look in her eyes
for fear
they will betray me.
“If Abba finds out
You can forget it!”
Ommi Knows
“I know why you run
to the clinic,” Ommi says,
“it is that girl”
and I say nothing.
What if she told Abi,
who has vengeance
buried deep
within his heart?
I cannot look in her eyes
for fear
they will betray me.
She grabs my phone.
“If Abi finds out,
forget it!”
Meteors:
Ronit Speaks
That light
is not daylight.
“It is some meteor
that the sun exhaled.”*
Don’t leave for Sinai,
stay.
When we leave
it will be together.
Names:
Ronit Speaks
Refuse your name
discard it
in the sewer,
and I will banish my name, too.
“What’s in a name?
That which we call a rose
by any other word
would smell as sweet.”*
Trade in your name.
Our skins are the same.
No one will know
the difference.
ACT III
Dreaming an Escape:
Overlapping Voices
Dreams
Nothing is left of me except you.
Nothing is left of you except me.
—Mahmoud Darwish
For me
named for a river
feeling your body in the desert
you, the river
ordained to flow your course
into me.
For me Allah
protecting us
waiting in the shade of the olive tree
for my cousin, Samar,
to bring us to our home in Ramallah,
but this is a dream
its veil thick as a storm
Israelis cannot enter Ramallah.
For me, I live this dream
that you are here
with me in Ramallah
listening to the sounds of the stones
of my ancestors.
I am your ancestor.
We must be the same
the door has opened
out of the desert.
I summon the stars
to guide us somewhere
where Abba and Imah are not looking.
I know Abba sneaks looks
when we are at Mohammed’s clinic
in East Jerusalem
when I disappear into a café
with Jamil.
We swore we were siblings
to all the gawkers
but don’t you think
they knew otherwise
your hand on my heart?
This is it, I want to tell Abba
we are shapes made of the same parts
we belong together.
“Our weight has
become light like our
houses in the faraway winds.
We have become two friends
of the strange creatures in
the clouds . . . and we are now
loosened from the gravity of
identity’s land.”1
Ommi knows about you;
she reads me like Braille.
She says nothing,
but understands
it is not like me
to run to Abi’s clinic
it’s not like I like blood
or wounds.
I only heal with water.
I would rather listen
to the cries of prayer
fly out
to the wind.
I would rather
hear the birds beat
their wild wings
against the day.
The music of poetry
moves me, and Abi thinks
that makes me less of a man.
“I am the traveler and also the road . . .
This is my language,
my miracle, my magic wand. . . .
In the rubble of the enchanting world around me
I stood on a wind,
and my long night was without end.”2
But what about the land
whose land is it?
Abba says I know.
But what about the land
whose land is it?
Abi says I know.
I celebrate today
when it does not matter
as I dream
the days
when we walked through the bazaars
in East Jerusalem;
did anyone really know
who I was—
my temple.
His mosque.
Today I dream
I am with Ronit in Ramallah.
where mosaic is a mask
to cover years of hurt
years of pain—
Israelis feel
Palestinians feel—
I know we feel the same.
I celebrate our souq, our market.
We share delicious kmaaj bread
out of the oven
I feel the heat
of the oven
of the desert
of Ronit.
If only to take her
to the city of El Bireh
and our Turkish baths,
we revel
in the heat
of the water.
“We weren’t stronger than plants,
except at the end of summer.
You are my reality. I am your question.
We inherited nothing
but our names.
You are my garden,
I am your shade,
in the final passage of an epic hymn.”3
Today we don’t hide.
We lick cones from Rukab’s ice cream
here, where big buildings
and five-star hotels
line the streets,
where dabke dance
is just like Ronit’s,
where film festivals
show movies,
where there are churches and mosques
and palaces, too,
where there is no fence
no checkpoints
no parents
only Ronit
only Jamil
and a house in Jaffa
and a bedroom, too.
Though I am an Israeli girl
I embrace your exile
I join the boundaries
of your body and their absence.
I hunger for your absence
and presence.
I am ready for you, Ronit.
“I wait for you with an azure cup.
I wait for you in the evening at the spring
among perfumed roses.
I wait for you
with seven pillows of a cloud.
If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.”4
We are th
e night.
We are the lovers.
In Jaffa
we won’t have to sneak
the way we do in Jerusalem.
Ronit says
she is ready to leap the fence.
Not just a fantasy of escape
the real thing.
Jamil’s Dream
Ronit,
I hope you get this text.
I had a dream;
it was amazing!
I heard your voice—
Hebrew and Arabic words
we have shared:
how you embrace my exit
how you are my ancestor
and we must be the same.
We have been together
in the coffee shops
in East Jerusalem,
one glorious day
in the desert;
your flesh sizzled
in the heat.
I know your Imah said
you would get your phone back
in three days.
I hope I am not screwing things up
by writing you,
but I am sick
of dreaming.
It is time
to run away.
Ronit’s Dream
Jamil,
I got your text.
Abba grabbed my
phone and threw it
I saw steam rising
from his eyes
“Where is that boy’s message?”
“No message,” I told him
since I had already
deleted it,
but here is my message
to you, Jamil,
I am done sneaking
beneath shadows.
I’m tired
of the subterfuge.
I have wings
on the back of my shoulders,
and I’m ready
to fly.
ACT IV
A Father’s Lament
CHAIM
My daughter, she has marbles in her head
she says it’s love, but no one is in sight
the day is done, has stolen all her light
she’d rather read and moan and stay in bed.
My wife she cries, her eldest is bereft
these months are like a dragon in disguise,
I feel her fire; she fills our house with lies,
it’s not Ronit; there must have been a theft.
The desert’s dust has entered in our home
the other children learn to stay away,
I’ll take her pain and make of it a clone
my head fills up, oh woe! oh woeful day!