^{Meadow Animals / Cass Noel (she/her)}

Cass is a local acrylic and mixed-media artist.

o burning gills

the stars configurations roll restless

seasonally, to know the milky way overhead

from bathing naked and raw beneath it

quenched in a point of permafrost

uneaten fruit suspended on the vine

candles cache a glow under the lids

in the murky fen, clang of eye contact

the stillness before passing into sleep

my neighbor is snoring on the other side of

this wall and it’s all that can lull me now

the horrors: myriad, teeth serrated

they tear easily, oxidize each ounce

pale in comparison to freshly scrubbed tile

and like draining the tub it whirls down

the rivers, the sea, bottom of the ocean

head spinning like a frostbitten reef shark

open mouth pulling in and in, and out

a guttural gasp gone soundless in the sea

crashing, blithely splintering fins and bursting

icicle gills long forgotten of life’s ochre

this is what happens when signs are swept

under bulging, dingy old rugs piled high

bottled messages reduced to seaglass

found along shorelines all those years later

with bleached coral and knucklebones

this is what you get for letting the wind in

one quick peek is glass upon the floor

curtains billowing, discordant windchimes

screaming like ribcages under pressure

like lungs will flail to when punctured

i scale the peaks of memory barefoot

unclad, navigating by candle memory

catching flies as stone pillar façade falls

honeyed and still, i’m clay in the kiln

an armless statue at the bottom of the sea

— Fin (they/them)

The land remembers their names

The ground was silent that morning.

Not empty —

silent.

It carried beneath its chest

the weight of a family,

the dreams of children,

the hands of mothers,

the footsteps of those

who once walked upon it.

The sky stood above Gaza,

wide and uncertain,

as if even the heavens

did not know where to place their grief.

After one thousand and ninety-nine days,

the earth opened her hands.

Not to take them,

but to return them.

One hundred and twelve souls

from the Abu Sharia family

rose from beneath the rubble —

doctors,

engineers,

mothers,

fathers,

children,

infants.

A whole family

written back into the memory of the land.

Gaza did not receive bodies that day.

She received names.

A mother of five stood on a rooftop,

holding flowers,

candies,

and the tears she could not hide.

She called to the sky:

Long live the martyrs.

A child who lost both parents

looked through a broken window.

The world was shattered before his eyes,

yet his voice remained:

For you, Palestine.

A man who survived

the death of everyone he loved

carried the remains of his family —

bones, photographs, memories.

He carried a universe

inside his wounded hands.

And he said:

The martyrs do not die.

An uncle who buried fifteen hearts

raised his voice:

Allah Akbar.

Not as a farewell,

but as a promise.

This land knows our footsteps.

This soil knows our names.

We live here.

We die here.

The streets of Gaza filled again.

Not only with mourning,

but with thousands of hands

reaching for the flag-covered bodies,

fighting for the honor

of carrying those

who carried Gaza before them.

Coffee was poured beside graves.

Stories were shared beside ruins.

And every wound

opened another memory.

Today,

the rubble has finally spoken.

It returned the last words

of those who rested beneath it.

Those who protected the earth,

and were protected by it.

Today, Gaza wears her grief

like an ancient dress.

And the land whispers:

They were never buried beneath me.

They were planted.

And I will remember their names.

— Ahmed Dremly
Gaza Strip

Author’s note: The poem was inspired by the funeral held August 4, 2026, for 112 members of the Abu Sharia family in Gaza, whose remains were recovered from beneath the rubble more than two years after they were killed. Three hundred and eight members of the family were killed, while the remains of only 112 have been recovered. They were my neighbors, and I knew many of them personally.

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.

🌞SUNFLOWER🌻

She squirms beautifully in the wind, so wild and so free, leaning in twards the breeze.

She takes a bow as she is resting still' like a shadow underneath the moonlight haze.

But in the day' when she wakes, she is drawn to the golden light that shines oh so bright. Her golden petals spread open as she begins to look up to the warmth of the sparkling sun🌞

Makeing a much needed stretch, her body naturally opens up like the wings of a wild butterfly 🦋 on a mission.

She is the sunflower🌻 and her golden glow✨️ just as bright as the golden sunshine as she emerges into her own metamorphis🌻🌚🌕🌘

— Alicia Barrera (she/her)

For Him

I wonder if he figures it’s the most use he’ll get out of me.

With precision, he sought me out and killed me.

Two hunters, playing a dangerous game.

His hand was better, and I bluffed.

Now, I lie here, waiting for Mother Earth to reabsorb my flesh.

I lie here waiting for him to finish flaying my hide.

The sky is dark; I cannot see stars, and they cannot see me.

So I lie here, and I wonder: Why?

They will call it ‘avoidable’.

Others will never know.

I wonder if he told anyone.

I wonder if he’s aware I’m dead.

— Arlyn Kiterberg

Find my new and ongoing work at: access33cblatv.substack.com