Nathalie Handal


A night without a blanket, a blanket

belonging to someone else, someone

else living in our homes.

All I want is the quietness of blame to leave,

the words from dying tongues to fall,

all I want is to see a row of olive trees,

a field of tulips, to forget

the maze of intestines, the dried corners

of a soldier's mouth, all I want is for

the small black eyed child to stop

wondering when the fever will stop

the noise will stop, all I want is

a loaf of bread, some water

and help for the stranger's torn arm,

all I want is what we have inherited

from the doves, a perfect line of white,

but a question still haunts me at night:

where are the bodies?