Roundup

in sleep, i travel, 
or perhaps it's me they visit—
so many hands, small & dusty 
& the lucky ones shaking.
reaching through smashed concrete,
weeds refusing to die.

my eyes peel open, 
sticky with the dark.
what makes a plant a weed?
i need to know.
a momentary video pause 
& gone is the sound.

the cries, strong but desperate,
fade from my ears—
but don’t i hear them all the time?
the silence, too, is sharp as glass, 
pleas for a help no one is giving
in what used to be gaza.

no, no, no,

it’s still gaza.
it will always be gaza.
hit play. a poet, and what’s left of
the five fingers she used to write,
a baby, and what’s left of
the little head he once dreamed with.

google says: 
a weed is just a plant 
that grows where it's not wanted.
like hands reaching through concrete,
refusing to die in what used to be gaza.
fuck.

no,

it's still gaza.
it will always be gaza.
today i swear i watched the sun
proudly paint the hills with her glow, 
so pretty i let her kiss my face 
before she even knew my name.

i curse her.
how dare you shine.
not here, siren.
not on this broken promise.
not on this lie they call a country.
treason, every time you rise 
to light this place of darkness.

mama says:
the sun is just doing her job
when no one else will
google says:
a weed is just a plant 
that grows where it's not wanted.

but it's still gaza.
it will always be gaza.
i will always want it.