Wednesday, September 25, 2024

david waltner-toews | if he were born today: christmas 1974

 winter night in palestine

clean and cold as polished steel

 

arabs rest their sheep

among rocks and thistles

like a patch of scruffy spring snow

on the hillside

 

somewhere behind them

in a desert cave

a small fire holds the vengeant night

at bay

men and women commune with clammy handshakes

and guns: the bread of death

 

below the shepherds

Israeli soldiers patrol the occupied city

stop to fidget at a small bar--

a sign at the city gate reads:

all arabs must register 

with the military authorities

in the city of their birth

 

the shepherds, remembering the sign

joke about it;

they were born in tents

they do not leave their sheep

 

suddenly a rocket

sleek as a sacrificial blade

splits the belly of silence above them

exploding, shrieking into the streets below;

the streets answer with gunfire rattle

boots running on concrete

trucks

searchlights against the hills

 

the shepherds huddle behind a rock

their sheep are bleating, bleating

 

more rattle of guns

the bleating stops

 

lights out, motors choke into silence

boots stomp back to the bar

nervous laughter curls up like smoke

incense to the unspeaking

mask of night

 

down a cobbled alley

from the bar

in a small lean-to

anxious, calloused hands

are pushing some goats away

from their manger

nearby, on a bed of dirty straw

a palestinian woman groans

pushing with all her prayerful might

against the pain in her belly 

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