The Bones of Natives under
the Starbucks across the pavement
rattle from the hundred thousand tons
of genocide dropped on Gaza.
In the mosque
where worshippers somber heads were bowed
in a second,
obliterated into that very ground
their last words whispers
to God, of love;
they traveled on,
were heard upon the decapitated heads of Indigenous peoples
everywhere a State has settled on blood.
In the moments between the orphans’ cries
and solemn funeral songs
the taste of kanafeh warms my tongue
it’s all one . . .
in a soft lit room
among the worried and tired,
we lay with the sounds of Oud
hoping for hope renewed
Who knows how any of this will end?
The blood, bombs, and brutal apathy —
Our peaceful beliefs sleep
while stupid men murder babies with buttons far away enough to not hear their screams —
“We have nothing to lose but our chains!”
“We have nothing to lost but [fear’s] chains!”
they’ve splattered red all over the place
with weapons made the American way,
there’s no more room for mass graves,
shrieks of death from hungry, charred bodies echo through our screens
asking why have we not shut down the factories already?
The Bones of Natives never found
under the capital and concrete poured over them
haunts us now — as if to say,
you are here, alive, there are no excuses.
From behind, they shake and shove our shoulders forward,
what will be our role in this story?
Yeah, I’ll cry —
about the Bones never found,
the capital and concrete poured over them haunts me now,
but, their prayers have been sung under the cement
the seven-year-old Falastini girl
who under the rubble
of the last hospital
whispers a love letter to God:
Al-humdullilahir rabi alameen
Ar rahman ar raheem
Malaki yaw medeen
Eyaka nabdu wa eyaka nasteen
Ehedenas sirataal mustaqeem
Siratal ladhini amnta alahim
Ghrail magdhoobi alahim
in our soft lit room
among the worried and tired
by any means necessary,
are ready to move.
Nathalie E. Amzan