To The Israeli Soldiers Who Shat In My House And Left It

Ah, if only I could be
a dam I'd ask the water
how do you break me
or a rock, you move me
the bottom of the sea
you fill me a cloud
release me, a river
guide me or a storm
begin and end me
a flood. If only
the droughts weren't so long
such frozen lakes
parables of motion
persistent as flies,
thine aid do we seek,
flee then seek again.
The forgotten Jews,
the twelve springs of Abraham,
those Mary tears.
Birth waters preceed every soul.
The lacking planets dry as fists
arranged silently in rows
study it all in dreams,
these illusions are invitations
when moths gather light
among the particles of night.

In Zacatacas the floods
are very old and carry
the mountains away as if
to card seeds from wool,
the vibrations of thunder
asssistants of demise,
incalculable lines of light
choose, they choose
certain walkers and runners
and promise so many
such bitter escapes.
The furthest destinations
where miracles are light weight
passengers as feathery
as seeds, graceful, determined.
They don't look back.
They never return home and know
where they are going -
to that end in another country's grave.
Bint Jubail buries her shops
in mortars and C'naa remembers
the people twice, poor people
wearing plastic slippers,
not well-dressed and familiar with the rain.