Here is a body,
not cold yet,
it’s owner
died hungry
while buying a dress
for his daughter.
What do you celebrate
in a world painted black
a god claimed
by the dingiest souls
that give birth
to rubble?
There is no light
piercing the body,
no blood flooding
the heart with love.
In a village in Palestine,
a teenager ignites
the loudest firework,
a middle finger
to his PTSD
from Israeli bombs
falling like hail
on the right lung
of his house.
Everyone fills themselves
with dates and black coffee,
so the hunger of Yarmouk
dissipates from the knees,
and a picture of a boy
eating grass burns.
Go on, celebrate
the nothing that is left,
the lies we tell ourselves
about ourselves,
the terribly small life we lead,
where even our hair is sin.
Happy Eid to all,
and to the bodies of Iraq,
a good night.
