Eulogy for an Occupied Land

Oh, Mama, my hands were once overtired 

from peeling pomegranates and 

pitting olives, dipping bread in oil

so rich, I can almost understand 

envy, the want to claim a land

that doesn’t belong to oneself. 

I’m in love with the earth and we’re

set to marry. We trust the land and 

the land, in return, trusts us. I am 

told it recognizes its owners. How 

can one own the land without loving it? 

How can one lay waste and claim 

love, claim ownership?

Pomegranates and olives have ceased

to grow, the roots have been torn apart. 

It was once almost alive as

the people who walked upon it. 

We dream of a day when we can 

treat the earth kindly again, when 

the wedding commences. She will

wear gauzy clouds as her dress, 

and I’ll give gold oil and tender 

care as my dowry, keep her safe

from unnature and extraction. 

We will be happy as we once were

and together birth the promise of 

scripture, holy pomegranate. 

Something so delicious, we’ll 

forget this famine of falsehood.

When Mama cuts the pomegranate

she slices the knife over its end 

into a star with its points cut off. 

Rips back the skin to reveal red, 

endless red and shine, juice.
We sealed our bond to the land 

with this fruit. Mama would peel 

my pomegranate if I asked it of her. 

I never would.

The earth splits skin,

deep red, and Mama

delivers her final gift, 

returns to the earth, to 

be kind to it like she 

was to me, like it will

be one day again with us.