Books:

sentries stand motionless

in front of the white wall,

but no passers-by, no queens, no kings.

 

Pencil lead shavings:

A heap of blackened sand on the altar,

sins of a murderer.

Or maybe gunpowder

after a battle between verse and prose?

Arabic and English languages in my mind?

 

Floor lamp:

So thin after a hunger strike,

an ant can cross around in seconds.

Like Usain Bolt.

 

At night when I sit on my chair.

I think of my shadow

as the angel of death,

or as a cloud that rains

dark on the pages,

the words strangled by the shadow weight.

 

Ceiling fan:

Titles on books’ spines get drowsy,

as friends on the ceiling run steadily,

but no one wins.

Everyone is running after someone and is being run after.

If I were in Gaza, it won’t be the case.

My Gazan books’ eyes don’t see either in the day or night.

If they did, those friends wouldn’t be running.

The power hardly gets connected.

 

Laptop screen:

I look at its face. It stares at but doesn’t see me.

It shows me oceans and lakes,

but I’m in a desert.

It shows me the sun,

but I’m shivering with cold.

I touch the sun on the screen.

The laptop freezes, then sleeps.

 

Highlighters:

A fly trudges on the desk,

notices the many colorful traffic lights.

It doesn’t know how to proceed at the purple,

orange, black, and pink.

Another fly pushes the startled fly.

My son, lying under the desk, pulls some hair

off my toes. I shout.

Both flies panic and fly away.

 

Eraser scraps:

Coffins lie on my desk,

hold the names of friends, their birthdates

within them.

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