To enter this field
cleanse your heart
Of all expectations
Of all memories
             & forget this people--

Our dreams
on nails
under the sun

Our sons die
on a map
in a country that doesn't exist

The howls of wolves
speak from their graves

Our poets reconstruct lives into volumes
Of suffering and grief
The world sits
like a well-paid whore
staring up at the moon

When we are finished
they will come, the mythmakers
archeologists, historians, tourists
Literati to the Camps
To decipher the hieroglyphs of Tent Cities
inspecting the Building-Of-Citizen-Permits
noting the Point-Of-Entry-Of -Rubber-Bullets

             that, the sun stares unbearably, late afternoon
             that, water is nowhere to be found in these wells
             that, they cannot explain how we traveled so far in this desert

They will pack up our ghosts
for their exhibitions
Our blood, for carbon dating
and circumstantial evidence
and measuring each corpse, imprisoned in a dream
of anguish and despair
declare this place

Garden of Poetry