Day 61

(for Refaat Alareer)

Who am I to tell your story? I am not
your sister, your mother, your student.  I did not
sit with you in the dark, waiting for news
we did not want to hear. I did not watch
when your child was born, when you taught her
to read. I did not answer her
when she asked if planes
could destroy your house
even when the lights were darkened.
(the lights are all darkened now for weeks.)
I did not hold your head when your brother was killed
nor walk with you to the ruined place
where he was buried.  I did not smell the smells
of burning, of flesh rotting, flesh eaten by maggots.
Who am I but a listener, a gatherer of sounds,
a woman standing in line at a shop
where others buy bread, milk,
vegetables.  Telling myself I don’t know
whether I have words to make a narrative.
To braid memory into memory, invent
a room, a table, a conversation .
Telling myself (and the planes overhead
are not for me, not for me
the groaning of engines, the explosions)
I have never had anything to offer
but words, and that must be enough.