Naomi Shihab Nye
Voice Message from Gaza
Sometimes she sings, whispers, prays.
One day she carries her coffee out to
a patio at her temporary residence
which still retains two palm trees.
She can see the moon, not yet set, and feel
the breeze, still normal. In the background,
fighter planes roaring, she doesn’t mention them.
She says, I’ve been thinking. I just don’t know…
There are gaps in the message. Sometimes she cries,
pulls herself together, apologizes.
Her favorite student who posted his little tomato
and mint gardens on Instagram was incinerated
en route to coffee with her one month ago.
He’d been down to the beach
to take some deep breaths.
So handsome he could have been a film star.
Recently he told her he wanted to write stories
of his people in a way anyone could understand,
those who’d never been in war, or been to Gaza.
He knew she would smile. This had been her job,
encouragement of students.
She’s afraid to know what’s happened to everyone else.
He was just walking over. She was proud he had realized
this was something he could really do.
Voice Message from Gaza, 2
You are so nice to think of me. I’m sending
you care every day. Thank you for worrying
about us. Our cat is fine but scared of loud sounds.
She has been hiding under a pillow.
My sister went to the beach after dark to gather
white shells to plant around her tent. She made a design
you know? If you add beauty it’s easier.
We had such lush vines last year,
our trees always gave olives,
it’s very hard to think about them
all being gone.
And all the plants in pots. I’m not able to get
donations at all, my account is frozen.
If I could, I would give to my sisters,
my mother, she needs medicine,
it’s very hard to find what anyone needs.
Even a band aid or Kleenex.
We have no men in this family, you know, we are
four women only, two sisters
in a tent with Mama, I have a loan
of a small room in another sector one hour
from them because of my job.
I still have a job thank goodness, so many people
do not because every place is crushed, you know?
The schools, the hospitals, the libraries,
everything a pile of stones. Everything we needed
for our lives. At my job, we are making care packages
of small things like hygiene products, socks,
and trying to distribute. It’s incredible
to be treated worse than animals, to have small sacks
of bread thrown to a huge crowd, everyone starving
and scrambling to catch some, with soldiers laughing as they
throw it. We love our animals. That is a difference.
Air Mind
I’m going to air out my mind the way
Germans advise leaving a rumpled bed
wide open for an hour before making it.
Go get a coffee, light your candle,
write your poems, water plants,
then return to tuck it nicely.
NO NEWS.
I’m not going to fret around politicians
to start my day. They’ll go their own ways
whatever I think. In fact, four whole years
without thinking of them—clear the decks.
How much room will that be?
So far my opinion meant nothing
to any of them, and what about yours?
Reams of disappointment, futility,
Zendo of emptiness.
But remember
also bird song beginning,
soft light lifting,
poking into mind
through dark trees.