Water leaps from the faucet,
clean, cold, crisp,
at the lightest touch.
A grimy filter under a lucent stream,
the swirl of black grounds, morning,
mesmeric, an otherworld dream.
The water, brackish now
blend of blood and powder and dust;
heavy drops fall, but nothing is clear.
The crackling cries of babes,
thirsting, no tears remain for pain;
only bullets and bombs rain.
So the child’s arm skyward thrusts
between unholy tablets, fingers
caked in blood and powder and dust.
Mother frantic, palms scraped rough to raw,
rocks back on bare heels;
no hijab can hide her horror.
Father silent, captured, dark-eyed
stares beyond a stuffed toy, his impotent hands–
another life away.
Staunched crimson flows,
explosions of blood and powder and dust
a chaos of extremities.
The privileged porcelain complains, stained;
mid-afternoon Rafah, no sweet coffee
pressed in Palestine.
© Martin C. Fredricks IV
Qahwa helwe – Arabic, sweet “goodbye coffee” served to guests prior to their departure