This Is What I Have

I have two feet, for walking the streets, on the beach, for running madly with my friends, and into my lover’s arms when we meet

Not for running away from death . . . every day.

I have fingers, for feeling the shiver my friend described when her lover kissed each finger

Not for wiping away my nephew’s tears as his chest is eaten by the infection in the tent.

I have two hands for writing, hugging, and waving along to the Lady’s songs, for drinking tea, and fulfilling my dream to drive a car

Not for lifting stones to search for the remains of my family, my belongings.

I have a heart, for beating rapidly with a word of love

Not with a new sadness.

I have a mouth, for reading out stories and poetry in my own quiet voice, for kissing children and pictures of my faraway lover

Not for trembling with crying, or screaming from pain.

I have a nose, for inhaling tulips, and scents that waft suddenly, reminding me of a dear person or situation

Not for smelling phosphorus, sulfur, blood, the shirts of those absent.

I have two eyes, for watching lovers, and the tree I planted in the courtyard grow

Not to see scattered body parts, a pulsating liver.

I have a head, for leaning on my lover’s shoulder in sadness and joy, for thinking about everything, and all that is to come, for dreaming

Not for burdens impossible to carry, when all it can do is: remember.

Translation from the Arabic