Carmen is a Cat

Untitled/Undated/Also, Ongoing

Someone announces there are jackals in Tel Aviv,

just for saying Jerusalem.

The key to the cities: Beirut and Nablus,

were purchased long ago while you slept

in Long Island.

A journalist fumbles in his pants

for his keys and a lead,

watches Arab children razed,

toilet trained too young on empty cans

carried room to room with the burghul;

it fell in older times from mud kitchen walls,

silos of sand in sand,

dispensing traces of brothers

fallen into wells full with grain.

You in a photograph of a boy

pointing into the deep of the old village house,

the place where you sunk forever.