Jenin

A night without a blanket, a blanket
belonging to someone else, someone
else living in our home.
All I want is the quiet of blame
to leave, all I want is the words from dying tongues
to fall, all I want is 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, water
help for the stranger’s torn arm,
all I want is what we have inherited
from the doves, a perfect line of white:
where are the bodies?