HAMID ASHOUR
Displaced Dog . . . Homeless Human
One night, a dog entered my house with a group of people who were fleeing the
bombing. All left the next morning except the nameless dog. As if he had lived
his whole life in his house and memorized its interior, he escaped the bedroom
for the backyard and the backyard for the roof in rhythm with the surrounding
raids. He sat n the safest spot in the house before bombs startled him. He
stayed with me from the beginning of the invasion. We shared fear, barking,
shrapnel, and canned meat. We shared the same fate, though I am not his
owner. We went out sprinting and leaping nimbly among the shells, carrying
nothing but the housekey — barefoot, bare-hearted, our minds bare. We made a
tent from old rags, reeds, and palm fronds. We shared it like friends. When one
of us slept to dream of return, the other guarded the dream and the road.
Gaza, 2024
NASSER RABAH
Nothing Kills Me, Nothing
I die slowly, oh Yiannis Ritsos,
Even slower, oh Nazim Hikmet.
From ancient times, the prisoners pass by asking, Do you remember?
Then I know who I am.
Empty prison, the dead pass by, waving to me.
I invite them into my museum of memory
Yet nothing kills me, nothing.
I die slowly, oh Federico Garcia Lorca,
Even slower, oh Muthaffar al-Nawab.
The timber contemplates itself in the extinguished fireplace.
A toothless ld man starts to sing, but his words jumble.
Daily, a street loses a door, a window.
Airplanes pass by overhead.
Yet nothing kills me, nothing.
I die slowly, oh Nasser Rabah,
Even slower, oh Pablo Neruda.
Two million messiahs ascend to God, barefoot and naked,
Holding out empty cooking pots, perturbing Rome's sleep.
They toss their children's names into the sky,
Until it is raining down song
On me, the keystone, touchstone, taproot of this place.
Yet nothing kills me, nothing.
Gaza 2024
______________________________________
You Must Live
New Poetry From Palestine
translated & edited by
Tayseer Abu Odeh & Sherah Bloor
Copper Canyon Press, 2025
