Every time I look at my hands

I realize how great God is. 

 

With my hands, 

I hold my ID in one 

and lean against a wall with the other, 

as I wait for hours 

at a military crossing in the West Bank. 

 

With my hands, 

I strip naked as my occupier orders,

then raise them above empty in the air,

as I walk through

the humanitarian corridor in Gaza.

 

With my hands, 

I collect the body of my son, 

stuff the pieces of his flesh into a plastic bag,

then carry him on my back. 

 

With my hands, 

I grab two fists of the sand of Gaza,

hiding them in my suitcase 

before they bury it with rubble.

 

With my hands, 

I draw my grandfather’s house in Beersheba,

the hens of my grandmother,  

his olive tree at the backyard 

as I imagine it. 

 

With my hands, 

I write a poem about my memories 

on the beach of Gaza

and the shape of Gaza I want to remember 

before being damaged by the occupier’s tanks. 

 

With my hands, 

I hold a child screaming

during a deafening roar

and hold her corpse when the sound ends.  

 

With my hands, 

I will put flowers on the graves

of my beloved ones, 

if I can return and find them.  

 

Every time I look at my hands, 

I see that a middle finger

is longer than the others. 

I realize how great God is.