I return to that town where I must
to claim the share of my father’s inheritance
there are holes in every house and I could
only try but fail to imagine my uncles on the veranda
with tea in small cups
it was a childhood dream
to make the news but not in this ruins
I couldn’t recognize our house, I traced it using GPS but I fear
it failed to bring me to the garden, where we spent the holiday
after the Qur’an classes, I did not see mother in stained gowns
that smells of a fallen rose
the end of a war is the beginning of a new world
until all the dead can be brought back without scars
and my uncles with their beards, slick like the wet lawn
no one should claim there are victories in war
the evacuated city is a battle field and every home is a barrack
for hungry soldiers, their hearts heavier than a gun
gunshot does not replace the vacuum and it never sounds like our music
because the bone marrow does not render the skeleton useless
a staggering man may look like he dances in his jellabiya
and this we must do, dress our wounds with tea bags
I have a sister that wants me to have her share, if I can inherit twice her
a thousand pollen sac of an anther will die before it could make
the garden where our children will join us after their violin classes
asking what made us grow flowers or drink tea in small cups