from Want Ads

for the Keepers

of the Keys

Nothing’s too far from Kafr Bir’im.

The border comes close enough
to whisper.
                    But no one crosses.

There’s a house for sale
that will not sell,

                      the blood on its stone
mine and my father’s

where he was left behind.

But that key around my neck, all mine.

I am homeless, but not on the streets.

I have gold to trade. Perfumes
           to fill the rooms I sit in
with my children and their children.

I have real estate.

But I have lost my home, the ancient
olive trees that filled the air with leaves.

My mother’s home, her hands
baked by the sun.

Her gratitude for water.

In the papers I have terrorized
           the peace of the world.
Let the want ads take what’s theirs,
           the obituaries will have
the only key I’ve kept.