Well Bottom Blues

I first I called this a ghazal because of the form, but then I said, this is not an amatory poem for the absent beloved. Until I realized it was.

What is this land for which my grandfather weeps into his tea?
My plot is cinder block and corrugated tin. The door has no key.

What is light to me who has no power? Another day
of gathering metal scrap from Gaza’s rubble to earn my pay.

Each day I cart a plastic carboy to bring my children water.
All of their promises are empty. I will not be a martyr.

I watched the children march up to their razor prison wall.
They fired without mercy and I saw the children fall.

My sons see there’s no future and there is no place to run.
If our prison is going to kill them, let them die holding a gun.

I cannot walk earth easily as bombs fall from the sky.
It’s hard to say the words of peace while watching people die.

There will be bodies in the streets on both sides of their wall.
There’s nothing I can do or say but peace be upon them all.