Remember the memory of Iqrit
a land torn under administrative procedure.
Only the cradle of church bones is left to mark the absence.
And, remember Kafr Bir’im
where the purchased victimization of Yeshuv expelled a whole people
as the Holocaust became the gaping wound by which
to lay the roots of Bank Leumi, Bank Hapoalim, Bank Mizrahi-Tefahot.
Here, where the transplant seeds of Sequoia now grow,
there are infinite baobabs that choke memory and what is truth.
Remember, the bones of Lod
(the slowing of the dead)
autumn’s memory is black.
Months, like the wrath of god, burn by different names
each moving towards the innocence
of winter, where all is absolved in the holy cause, by another name.
There is a permission for pain that is granted only to the
tender hands of the one who inflicts the torture
for, don’t they also have the difficult choice
of enforcing ideology on the bruises of other bodies?
Irgun declared רק כך (only thus), or one way
to a morality that is clarified, sanitized,
buried amid the pipes that siphon water
providing humanity with unprecedented technological advances
as a means of claiming more land.
The pride of a twisted cause is taught young
where belonging is understood as borders,
citizenship can be acquired simply by holy entitlement while declined from the blood of birth
and the horror of one obliteration is made into vengeance upon another.
Where there were bodies that borrowed their existence
and learned the first meaning of the crying wall after taking a gun in hand,
this country was made by the perfecting of death
and the justification of forms of murder by the commission,
the ignorability of the law.
Remember, the land that was sold into new measurements,
dunam made into hectares
“someone, somewhere, had to own it”
for the thief guards most closely that which was stolen.
Here, religion forgets its obligations to penitence
over the promises of bankers whose religion is the remaking of memory.
Where people bless the miracle of bread with the justification of another murder,
the meaning of matzah is rotten, bread is dust in the mouth,
when it covers the graves of the chosen people, the people who live too much,
for whom prisons are commissioned by American and Canadian companies.
Another soul, borrowed for the right to be,
borrowed life from life as existence became a matter for speculation
“a reminder, we do not forget”
for whom new memory is written,
where there are fewer homes for memory,
so was the memory sold.