Blood

    "A true Arab knows how to catch a fly in his hands，"

    my father would say. And he'd prove it，

    cupping the buzzer¹ instantly

    while the host with the swatter stared.

    In the spring our palms peeled like snakes.

    True Arabs believed watermelon could heal fifty ways.

    I changed these to fit the occasion.

    Years before， a girl knocked，

    wanted to see the Arab.

    I said we didn't have one.

    After that， my father told me who he was，

    "Shihab"——"shooting star"——

    a good name， borrowed from the sky.

    Once I said， "When we die， we give it back？"

    He said that's what a true Arab would say.

    Today the headlines clot² in my blood.

    A little Palestinian dangles³ a truck on the front page.

    Homeless fig⁴， this tragedy with a terrible root

    is too big for us. What flag can we wave？

    I wave the flag of stone and seed，

    table mat stitched in blue.

    I call my father， we talk around the news.

    It is too much for him，

    neither of his two languages can reach it.

    I drive into the country to find sheep， cows，

    to plead with the air：

    Who calls anyone civilized⁵？

    Where can the crying heart graze？

    What does a true Arab do now？