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His mother did not wash it for this,
for him to be carried dead by two friends
across the thirsty ground of Gaza.
That morning he put it on, she told him
he looked handsome, a fine deep color
for an unfolding day.
Copyright © 2022 by Naomi Shihab Nye. This poem originally appeared in Tikkun, September 10, 2021. Used with permission of the author.
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning
my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:
"If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please
come to the gate immediately."
Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.