Hands that ached

my teta is gone, and everything is worse now

the windows in her house hold the fading memories

everywhere in it; a place of worries

everything in it; a ground of tears in which I sow

there is no more rhyme or art which

even the cracking paint on the wall has forgotten

the neighborhood dogs do not bark anymore, but howl instead

I stop. the rhymes have stopped, and the tears are returning

there is no way to hold back the tide this time

on desolate summer mornings, my teta would get up early,

put her clothes on in the crippling heat,

then with cracked hands that ached

from a long life lived for others

turn on the fan to combat the heat

and shape dough into manakish. nobody ever thanked her.

the warm scent would flirt with my nostrils

and I would wake and hear the tinkle of the glass teacups

when the tea was ready, she’d call,

and slowly I would get up and walk over,

fearing the unrelenting bustle of that house,

hoping it was only her and I this time,

and I dared to speak indifferently to her,

to my teta, who had driven out the heat

and noticed the little scar on my left cheek

not taking in the true significance of the moment

not realizing that would be the last

of those summer mornings that I could ever remember

what did I know, what did I know

of the complexity of love and generational divides?

she is not here to notice the little scar

on my left cheek anymore

and I meet her only in my dreams now

where I still sense the warm scent

of a summer morning’s tea and manakish

but, when I start to wake and reach out this time

my questioning hand finds nothing now

so I say it into the heat she is no longer here to drive away:

thank you.

— Ayham Freihat
West Bank

This poem appears on wearenotnumbers.org, where emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Every month, we publish Palestinian poetry to help combat Israel’s attempts to erase Palestine’s contributions to history and the arts.

*Tenacity of Life* / St. Renn / https://www.instagram.com/strenn.art/

Wading

The Horse-Headed Man rode me along
I-82

I was feeling nauseous

Fuck I hate meetings with HR

I puked up the apples he gave me

Luckily the Horse Electrolytes kept me from locking up

When I got there I got there

When I left I left

Sleepy sleep

The kind that hurts

Now I get to watch the Herons

— Uxbal Cabañuela

Uxbal Cabañuela writes disjointed poetry. Life is a mess; he arranges it as such. Instagram: @‌http40469

*Helsings wives* / Jinx Courson / @‌opossumink

Holy Cow Corruption

(Can be sung to the tune of the ‘Battle Hymn of The Republic’)

Holy holy cow corruption
Needs impeachment interruption
Holy holy cow corruption
our President’s a crook
(Oh yeah)

He has taken bribes for pardons
and a jet that is sublime,
he’s imprisoned little children,
he’s convicted of sex crimes,
he’s torn down east wing offices
destroyed the White House lawn,
our prices are too high.