Praise for the head
Qibya Sabra & Chatila Jenin
d. Ariel Sharon 2014
May I introduce
the Prime Minister,
sage of the belly,
one of us,
warrior king for the emptied land of kings
where he plants his feet,
concrete and polished facts on the ground
straddling the sea
of terrorists and little girls with satchels.
Whoever speaks evil
against that aged man
and his top of white hair,
they’ll see no evil –
their eye irises
indefinitely detained –
Nor hear evil -
Hobbling along in
eyemasks, earmuffs, mouthtapes.
The animals are eyeless in cages,
You stacked the little girls in towns
You stalled the small boys inside a wall
concrete as the wonderful world around us.
May the sky shower down
candies and cookies
over your tireless head.
In this way we all swore the head was
a light bulb, the day of days, continuous.
Babel head. Lit up the sky. Such gratitude.
Could not imagine the following:
Popped dead, stopped dead, propped up:
Head suddenly out on its own
in out in out, day by day.
What does the head dream?
Beyond even his one bad dream,
the tremor he immediately forgot
after the first act,
the long smear on the hands
so long ago