The War Works Hard Read online

  a pat on the back

  and paints a smile on the leader’s face.

  The war works with unparalleled diligence!

  Yet no one gives it

  a word of praise.

  The Game

  He is a poor pawn.

  He always jumps to the next square.

  He doesn’t turn left or right

  and doesn’t look back.

  He is moved by a foolish queen

  who cuts across the board

  lengthwise and diagonally.

  She doesn’t tire of carrying the medals

  and cursing the bishops.

  She is a poor queen

  moved by a reckless king

  who counts the squares every day

  and claims that they are diminishing.

  He arranges the knights and rooks

  and dreams of a stubborn opponent.

  He is a poor king

  moved by an experienced player

  who rubs his head

  and loses his time in an endless game.

  He is a poor player

  moved by an empty life

  without black or white.

  It is a poor life

  moved by a bewildered god

  who once tried to play with clay.

  He is a poor god.

  He doesn’t know how

  to escape

  from his dilemma.

  The Prisoner

  She doesn’t understand

  what it means to be “guilty.”

  She waits at the prison entrance

  until she sees him, to say,

  “Take care of yourself,”

  as she always used to remind him

  when he went off to school,

  when he left for work,

  when he returned while on vacation.

  She doesn’t understand

  what they are saying now

  at the back of the podium

  in their official uniforms.

  They report that he should be kept there

  with lonely strangers.

  It never occurred to her,

  as she sang lullabies on his bed

  in those distant days,

  someday, he would end up in this cold place

  without windows or moons.

  She doesn’t understand,

  the prisoner’s mother doesn’t understand

  why she should leave him

  just because

  “the visit is over.”

  A Drop of Water

  for Mazin

  The snowboy was thinking of the snowgirl

  when desire burned his heart,

  the fire spreading

  until he gradually melted

  and disappeared…

  The snowgirl is frozen in a drop of a water.

  Perhaps this is a token of the snowboy?

  She thinks this and melts,

  shrinking as she thinks

  and the drop grows.

  Inanna

  I am Inanna.

  And this is my city.

  And this is our meeting

  round, red and full.

  Here, sometime ago,

  someone was asking for help

  shortly before his death.

  Houses were still here

  with their roofs,

  people,

  and noise.

  Palm trees

  were about to whisper something to me

  before they were beheaded

  like some foreigners in my country.

  I see my old neighbors

  on the TV

  running

  from bombs,

  sirens

  and Abu Al-Tubar.

  I see my new neighbors

  on the sidewalks

  running

  for their morning exercises.

  I am here

  thinking of the relationship

  between the mouse and the computer.

  I search you on the Internet.

  I distinguish you

  grave by grave,

  skull by skull,

  bone by bone.

  I see you

  in my dreams.

  I see the antiquities

  scattered

  and broken

  in the museum.

  My necklaces are among them.

  I yell at you:

  Behave, you sons of the dead!

  Stop fighting

  over my clothes and gold!

  How you disturb my sleep

  and frighten a flock of kisses

  out of my nation!

  You planted pomegranates and prisons

  round, red and full.

  These are your holes in my robe.

  And this is our meeting…

  An Urgent Call

  This is an urgent call

  for the American soldier Lynndie

  to immediately return to her homeland.

  She suffers from a dangerous virus

  in her heart.

  She is pregnant

  and is sinking in deep mud.

  She sinks deeper and deeper

  as she hears: “Good job!”

  Hurry up, Lynndie,

  go back to America now.

  Don’t worry,

  you will not lose your job.

  There are prisons everywhere,

  prisons with big black holes,

  and great shivering,

  and consecutive flashes,

  and tremblings that convey messages

  with no language

  in a blind galaxy.

  Don’t worry,

  nobody will force you

  to feed the birds

  when you carry a gun.

  Nobody will force you

  to work for the environment

  when you wear combat boots.

  Don’t worry,

  we will send an email to God

  to tell Him

  that the barbarians

  were the solution.

  Don’t worry.

  Take a sick leave

  and release your baby

  from your body,

  but don’t forget

  to hide those terrible pictures,

  the pictures of you dancing in the mud.

  Keep them away

  from his or her eyes.

  Hide them, please.

  You don’t want your child to cry out:

  The prisoners are naked…

  Non-Military Statements

  1

  Yes, I did write in my letter

  that I would wait for you forever.

  I didn’t mean exactly “forever,”

  I just included it for the rhythm.

  2

  No, he was not among them.

  There were so many of them!

  More than I’ve seen in my life

  on any television screen.

  And yet he was not among them.

  3

  It has no carvings

  or arms.

  It always remains there

  in front of the television

  this empty chair.

  4

  I dream of a magic wand

  that changes my kisses to stars.

  At night you can gaze at them

  and know they are innumerable.

  5

  I thank everyone I don’t love.

  They don’t cause me heartache;

  they don’t make me write long letters;

  they don’t disturb my dreams.

  I don’t wait for them anxiously;

  I don’t read their horoscopes in magazines;

  I don’t dial their numbers;

  I don’t think of them.

  I thank them a lot.

  They don’t turn my life upside down.

  6

  I drew a door

  to sit behind, ready

  to open the door

  as soon as you arrive.

/>   Between Two Wars

  This is all that remains:

  a handful of burnt papers,

  photos, here and there

  with rippled backs like maps.

  One of us died,

  another savors life

  in his place.

  One of us returned,

  changed by magic into a small bird

  who knows the news in another language.

  One of us went crazy

  and kept babbling nonsense

  for hours under the sun.

  One of us escaped

  from the bugs and the officers

  to who knows where.

  Sidewalk vendors wrap falafel

  in the pages of our books.

  The entire assembly of gods

  has come to help.

  On the way to us, they pinch their noses

  and watch a woman roll tobacco.

  To her, the hand-rolled cigarette

  is more wondrous

  than the Seven Wonders of the World.

  All her relatives have gone abroad.

  The boy next door

  returned one day,

  a tin star on his chest.

  He talked too much

  about that star

  until, one day, he changed

  into a piece of metal

  in the Martyrs’ Monument.

  This is all that remains:

  a handful of meaningless words

  engraved on the walls.

  We read so absent-mindedly,

  eventually we forget

  how, in the short lull

  between two wars,

  we became so old.

  Tough Rose

  I am a new rose.

  My redness, wild hallucinations,

  and my thorns, prison cells

  with views of the moon.

  Yesterday someone touched me,

  but did not pick me.

  I was tough.

  I didn’t give him any of my petals.

  Tomorrow when people pass by,

  my leaves will remind them

  of things that never were,

  and they will leave my dry head bare

  contemplating the new roses

  which were not here yesterday.

  The Jewel

  It no longer stretches across the river.

  It is not in the city,

  not on the map.

  The bridge that was…

  The bridge that we were…

  The Pontoon Bridge

  we crossed every day…

  Dropped by the war into the river

  just like the blue jewel

  that lady dropped

  off the side of the Titanic.

  A Voice

  I want to return

  return

  return

  return

  repeated the parrot

  in the room where

  her owner had left her

  alone

  to repeat:

  return

  return

  return…

  Travel Agency

  A pile of travelers is on the table.

  Tomorrow their planes will take off

  and dot the sky with silver

  and descend like evening on the cities.

  Mr. George says that his beloved

  no longer smiles at him.

  He wants to travel directly to Rome

  to dig a grave there like her smile.

  “But not all roads lead to Rome,” I remind him,

  and hand him a ticket for one.

  He wants to sit by the window

  to be sure that the sky

  is the same

  everywhere.

  O

  Santa Claus

  With his beard long like war

  and his suit red like history,

  Santa Claus paused with a smile

  and asked me to pick something.

  You’re a good girl, he said,

  therefore you deserve a toy.

  Then he gave me something like poetry,

  and because I hesitated,

  he assured me: Don’t be afraid, little one,

  I am Santa Claus.

  I distribute beautiful toys to children.

  Haven’t you seen me before?

  I replied: But the Santa Claus I know

  wears a military uniform,

  and each year he distributes

  red swords,

  dolls for orphans,

  artificial limbs,

  and photos of the missing

  to be hung on the walls.

  Buzz

  As the airplane takes off

  and puffs out a smoke of images,

  I think about tossing one of my ears

  from the window.

  It has an annoying buzz that abrades me.

  The buzz smells like gunpowder

  and trips the pretty words

  which bubble out accidentally

  from my other ear

  to the friendly sky

  vanishing in clouds.

  The stewardess doesn’t know

  why I block my ear with my hand

  and puff out images of smoke.

  I don’t know why

  the memories grow

  while I shrink.

  I don’t remember what I wanted to say.

  I don’t want to say

  what I remember

  as the plane lands.

  Crashed Acts

  After an hour delay,

  the plane took off with its busy passengers…

  The stewardess will not smile.

  The student will not read his letter.

  The actress will not play the role of princess.

  The business man will not attend the meeting.

  The husband will not see his wife.

  The teacher will not wear her glasses.

  The university graduate will not start her new job.

  The lover will not celebrate his beloved’s birthday.

  The lawyer will not defend the client.

  The retiree will not be there.

  The child will not ask

  any more questions.

  Snowstorm

  for Lori

  Oh, what sweet children!

  They rush to awaken us.

  We, the snow-women,

  just now born

  from nostalgia or boredom,

  accumulate outside

  making the pampered storm

  wade through our flakes.

  Sometimes the storm covers us

  like an earnest god

  with leaves from the trees of Paradise.

  And we, the snow-women,

  kneaded in the children’s sweet hands,

  expand and smile,

  and when they attach our eyes,

  we gaze gratefully,

  staring to make them hurry.

  We can’t wait for them to attach our feet.

  We want to move,

  the celebration will start soon.

  We will signal with our fingers

  which they are now forming.

  We will signal

  to a balloon

  that rises from our voices.

  There it is!

  Look!

  We can’t wait

  to get moving.

  They are taking too long

  to attach our feet

  so that we—

  how sad!

  —depart on a sunny day.

  To Any Other Place

  With her unkempt hair

  and her repugnant smell

  and her fleeing children,

  The Red Mother sat

  face to face

  with The Brown Mother

  and a third, The Wordless Conversation:

  The Red Mother said: How much I hate you!

  Your beginning is my end.

  The Brown Mother said: Your sons, the battles,<
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  shatter the glass of our windows

  and terrify my sleeping daughters.

  The Red Mother: I want firewood… firewood…

  I want to feed my sons,

  I want them to grow up

  and devour your daughters, the peace.

  The Brown Mother: I raise my daughters for roses

  and you raise your sons for ashes.

  The fire breaks out

  and the dancing will start around it.

  The fire is not satisfied

  and the dance does not end.

  The Red Mother: Let us celebrate every year

  the steps which have diminished

  and the pairs of shoes that remained

  there in the mud.

  The Brown Mother: This rhythm

  does not please me,

  and these drums make the din

  of emptiness.

  I want to move my daughters

  to another place,

  to any other place…

  I Was In A Hurry

  Yesterday I lost a country.

  I was in a hurry,

  and didn’t notice when it fell from me

  like a broken branch from a forgetful tree.

  Please, if anyone passes by

  and stumbles across it,

  perhaps in a suitcase

  open to the sky,

  or engraved on a rock

  like a gaping wound,

  or wrapped

  in the blankets of emigrants,

  or canceled

  like a losing lottery ticket,

  or helplessly forgotten

  in Purgatory,

  or rushing forward without a goal

  like the questions of children,

  or rising with the smoke of war,

  or rolling in a helmet on the sand,

  or stolen in Ali Baba’s jar,

  or disguised in the uniform of a policeman

  who stirred up the prisoners

  and fled,

  or squatting in the mind of a woman

  who tries to smile,

  or scattered

  like the dreams

  of new immigrants in America.

  If anyone stumbles across it,

  return it to me, please.

  Please return it, sir.

  Please return it, madam.

  It is my country…

  I was in a hurry

  when I lost it yesterday.

  America

  Please don’t ask me, America.

  I don’t remember

  on which street,

  with whom,

  or under which star.

  Don’t ask me…

  I don’t remember

  the colors of the people

  or their signatures.

  I don’t remember if they had