Poem: Resurrection?

'On soil made sterile by history...'

On soil made sterile by history

tear gas canisters spent

but with the sickly smell of death

here where once a garden

bloomed.

She remembers sunlight on olive trees

torn down, grubbed up,

chants of triumph, the shriek of missiles.

A pain buries deep like a worm

In her skull.

 

One by one she gathers the canisters.

Still within the soil, she hopes,

some grain of life. She fills the shells.

She plants. Each relic a grave

for seeds.

 

She lines up the shells.

She waits for growth.

Each casing, a bed for

flowering. Unless the seed die.

Resurrection?

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