There are not words enough
to clear your skies, birds enough

to drop so many olive branches
to shield and feed, wing flutter enough

to drown the buzz of drones. No
taboon for hummus, no fūl offered enough,

oranges to burst their sweetness in
your mouth. Not when you hunger enough

for any quiet place, open green fields—
somewhere for your parents, brothers, sisters. Enough

of this dream, full of beauty and heart!
It hurts even me. Can it help shelter enough?

Carry you, as you should be carried, held
in warm arms after you wake from after enough

of the world not crumbling as fast as it should,
and yet too quickly for you to breathe, your hunger enough

for lifetimes, for lineages, for all human time
to come, and the rest of us, half-living guiltily, never enough

courage and power to speak, to block, to end, to break
all that is breaking you, put our own children to bed, tender enough

to dream some fragile, thinly stitched story
of safety, when there is never enough

left for you, when we eat and you can’t, when we
can steal more joy than our share, when I, mother enough,

love enough, feed my babies enough, and yet,
not enough to down the drones, the bombs, not sugar enough,

to fill your knapsacks, flour enough, oil, eggs, peace
and cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, baby formula. Never enough.

There will never be enough for any of us as long as there
is not enough for you. Enough of this. Enough. Enough. Enough.