If not the screams of our mothers, disrupting the clouds If not her hands If not our trauma sold to the white gaze If not the palm trees drizzled in blood If not the sky pissing in panic If not our children If not our children If not the graves If not the bombs pulverizing the land If not the suits If not the silence If not a solution If not the cats, scurrying away If not the rubble If not the tears If not the names If not your empty land acknowledgments If not a genocide If not Shereen If not the bullets if not the prisons If not the news not breaking you If not our men If not the blockade If not our children If not our children If not our children     then nevermind your future.     Our mothers knit scarves out of our flesh —
    Our children live forever —
    Our voices language beyond the graves —
    Our fathers slip tenderness into our palms —
    Our shoulder blades become wings —



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