winter night in palestine
clean and cold as polished steel
arabs rest their sheep
among rocks and thistles
like a patch of scruffy spring snow
on the hillside
somewhere behind them
in a desert cave
a small fire holds the vengeant night
at bay
men and women commune with clammy handshakes
and guns: the bread of death
below the shepherds
Israeli soldiers patrol the occupied city
stop to fidget at a small bar--
a sign at the city gate reads:
all arabs must register
with the military authorities
in the city of their birth
the shepherds, remembering the sign
joke about it;
they were born in tents
they do not leave their sheep
suddenly a rocket
sleek as a sacrificial blade
splits the belly of silence above them
exploding, shrieking into the streets below;
the streets answer with gunfire rattle
boots running on concrete
trucks
searchlights against the hills
the shepherds huddle behind a rock
their sheep are bleating, bleating
more rattle of guns
the bleating stops
lights out, motors choke into silence
boots stomp back to the bar
nervous laughter curls up like smoke
incense to the unspeaking
mask of night
down a cobbled alley
from the bar
in a small lean-to
anxious, calloused hands
are pushing some goats away
from their manger
nearby, on a bed of dirty straw
a palestinian woman groans
pushing with all her prayerful might
against the pain in her belly
