Letter To Rihanna At The Time Of The Superbowl
I don't know if it's silly for a Palestinian
to wish to stay alive,
not to die until the time of the Super Bowl.
But I would love to watch Rihanna,
and if I must die, I'd rather the last voice
in my ears to be Rihanna not
a stupid buzzing piece of shit.
Rihanna, I have tried to love the drone,
Writing it an ode.
But unlike you, Riri, it doesn't make me feel
like I am the only guy in the world, it’ll ever love.
All it sends are missiles and hate.
Here it comes again,
buzzing even
through my veins.
I run to your voice from the remains of its sound—
into my head, even in the drone’s brief rest—
singing loud with you, SOS please, somebody help me.
It's not healthy for me to feel this.
In The Poem,
I give the hospital legs and wheels,
but would that be enough for it to
survive the faster missiles?
I sculpt arms for my home,
but would it fold the walls
before the memories get amputated?
I draw the sea a mouth,
but would it swallow Gaza,
keep her inside until the genocide is over?
I sew the body of a young girl
That was split in half, giving her body life.
But would death stop its constant revisiting?
Would death be like a gentle puff of air?
The Body of Santa
The Palestinian civil defense found bits
of his hat, his red suit, and a few fragments
from his bag of presents, perhaps.
They continued removing rubble by hand.
The body of Santa was never found.
Some witnesses claim they saw him
distributing presents in Ahli hospital
before the bombs destroyed it.
After the killing of Santa in Gaza,
Mrs. Claus applied to the U.S. government,
to investigate the murder of her husband
and the mysterious absence of his body.
Israel reassured the U.S. president
that they will investigate the crime,
the mistake, the incident, the tragedy.
Odd how their tongues keep slipping.
The IOF has dropped a new American bomb
that evaporates bodies, a relief to Israelis,
who fear even dead Palestinians as evidence
more than they fear Hamas.
One witness claims he saw Santa resurrected
and ascending into the sky.
Maybe he is showing God his stained bag of
the remaining presents—flesh, heads and bones.
Published on We Are Not Numbers
