A Child Named Palestine

A Child Named Palestine

He cannot remember his mother but
but he will never forget his midwife.

She was the bomb that hurtled through
the crowded orange sky
while he was still curled up, unprepared.
Her hands were cold and rough
They ripped open his mother's belly
and hauled him out bloodied.
Her screams preceded his,
endlessly announcing the agony they shared.

No hands needed slap his buttocks
to make him cry.
The flames around forced open
his mouth.
The acrid smell of gunpowder was
his first intoxicant.

For him the world would forever
feel and smell the same:
his mother's screams the sound of
the earth turning on its axis,
the bombfires the many sunrises of his life.