In Gaza, by Cath Campbell

Today, I hear no apology, but rather an apologist,
a jackal, loll-tongued slyness,
though his cool assertions will not outrun truth.

Today, I see blood spread through her hijab,
soaking the stained strip of conflict
that is Gaza, blind, stoned, and laid out naked,

dying in the world’s eyes, heart by heart,
crucified in want and water,
falling lives gutted by precise aimed bullets.

Today, I know is not a good day to die,
nor is it a good day to kill,
and if their god watches, what must he think;

his chosen people impotent before the golden calf
raised high above the citadel
by unscrupulous men in princely potency of power?

The great dream of home, honey, and motherland
turning to bleached bone
on the borderline between yearning and theft.

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