Mosab Abu Toha

even though I know no ship is arriving.

My hope is that you will come flying to me

on your tireless wings.

I will collect seashells and pebbles to build a house

for us on the beach until you come.

I don’t know how many houses I will have built

before you come.

I’m afraid I will rebuild Gaza by then

I walk carefully on the beach, look to

see if a child’s footsteps lie ahead,

a child who’s lost a leg, or two,

or can no longer hear the waves

My family was out looking for my body.

During the night airstrikes, all of us turned

into stones

We left the house,

took two blankets,

a pillow, and the echo

of the radio with us

Why is it when I dream of Palestine,

that I see it in black and white?

People say silence is a sign of consent.

What if I’m not allowed to speak,

my tongue severed,

my mouth sewn shut?

Go to your bed

and, in your sleep,

begin to memorize