there are those of us whose bones

became the topography of home

and those who bake the bread

and conduct the chant and stone

and those who march the shoreline

to return with the light of day

if another foreign spring is coming our way

may it never stay

I wash my eyes

I pack my fingerprints

and the remains of a prayer;

if another foreign spring is coming our way

may it never stay

I am the search after God from Burqa to Wadi Salib

I am the 93 miles from Eilabun to Beirut

I am the last almond season before

we are the archive they cannot hide behind gates

we are the empire

the figures of speech

and the death of both

I wash my eyes

I pack my fingerprints

and the remains of a prayer;

from Ras AlNaqoura to Rafah

may the shoreline witness the return

with every light of day.