Mahmoud
Mahmoud could have been our son.
I’d have objected to the name
and, for family reasons, you’d have insisted on it.
We could have bought him a crib with a blue quilt
and hung spinning musical animals
to coax him to sleep,
could have stayed up all night for his first tooth,
experimenting with various formulas
because my breasts couldn’t produce enough milk
for his voracious appetite.
And with a new Nikon camera,
we could have captured his first step.
And his verbal skills would have wiped the floor
with your niece’s skills, of course.
We could have disagreed over his elementary school:
nothing wrong with public education, you’d have said,
and I’d have demanded a private one.
You’d have turned your face toward me
as you counted our few remaining dollars
to my wailing about balancing the budget.
We would have been happy,
his first school bag in one hand,
his other hand waving to the neighbor’s girl
before waving to us.
His teacher would’ve complained
as teachers are wont to do,
and we’d have called her names for her blindness
to the genius of our only son. Yes,
we would have bought him a battery-operated car,
built him a paper plane that doesn’t fly,
maintained his teeth white,
flipped his collar for coolness,
and he’d have loved me more than you
because of issues beyond my grasp:
your jealousy would’ve grown mysterious.
And when his voice changed he’d hate us both
and love the neighbor’s girl more.
Rumination would have haunted us
for hours at night. Our whispers
advising us to be patient, let go, observe
from a distance. Then you’d have lost your wits
over his first cigarette, the hidden pack
in the laundry room, but his tremulous voice
would prevent you from slapping him
with an open palm. You’d have forgiven him,
you’re kind like that. He’d only smoked in secret.
But the first rock he’d have thrown
at soldiers at the checkpoint,
to raise his heroic stock in Manal’s eyes,
would have declared war in our house:
biting followed by flying slippers.
Nightly debates wouldn’t have helped us
to core solutions. I’d have to carry him
between my teeth, fly him
from one neighborhood to another to shield him.
But he’d run away.
That would be who he’d always been.
A misguided kid who saps the heart and soul,
that’s who he was. Still you
were martyred eight years
before he was born, and he was martyred
eight years after you were gone.
— Maya Abu Al-Hayyat
May 31, 2022 in Jerusalem
Translated by Fady Joudah
Read more at https://thebaffler.com/logical-revolts/poems-from-palestine
These democracy coloring pages were created by Adam Whittier / www.adamwhittier.com
Dancing to Know You
Acoustic rhythms surround us
Couples shuffle to the beat
Silently we walk together
To the edge of a living sea.
With empty hands I hold you
Kept distant by our arms
As one we step out slowly
To join the flowing throng.
At my signal you step lightly
And spin beneath my hands
My blood races with excitement
As you turn into my grasp.
Your eyes meet mine and smile
I think I see a friend
Much too soon, it's over
For music has an end.
Wanting again to hold you
As we wait for the next set
Glancing at you I smile
I hope it's a two-step.
— Charles Conover
Charles is a retired professional and die-hard romantic, who despite all the years, still misses the hair he used to have.
WILD Sky
The sky looked WILD tonight
Blue, purple, then rose pink, white as light, and then yellow and gold like the sun.
Ocean waves appeared to crash only to turn into the perfect cloud with an ocean blue hue.
Faces appeared tilted to the left and then to the right, with animals mingling and running awry into the mysterious colorful sky.
Bulls with wings soon appeared then disappeared as the sun set. And like a magical mystery, a jungle in the sky ran wild and free.
Soon there were a few twinkling stars that lightly appeared, leaning towards mother moon’s light shadow, and little by little the mystic and magical sky disappeared ~ fading slowly into the late night, turning dark, then still...
— ~A. Barrera
Imagination can make the mind run wild°
