Cleansing souls to Rome’s twisted roads
Paved on stones thrown from Bethlehem
Death came from sin
And he was adorned
It was then that a Palestinian was born

Brown shaded and hairy
Prickly as the fruit
Planted at the root
I search for its name yet
Bloody pulp pursues

A memory I describe to try and remember
Instead, salted earth and fog rubble my brain
Unimaginable if I had grown on the tilth
Of the soil meant to toil the mulch
Of our germinating grains

Ground that begat us
Bespoke, then be gone with us
The mud asks where I am
With the patience of man
And the same sleight of hand, I remember

I remember the Arabic word for patience is sabr
Sabr, the name of fruit I’d forgotten
Sabr I can no longer extend
Sabr grows where European trees wither
Sabr is every checkpoint from West Bank to Rafah

Sabr asks me where I’ve gone
I don’t know where to start
My parents played in its shadow
Holding hands with its stem
Withstanding Occupation out of scorn

In those moments, a Palestinian was born
When even our flag unbearable for settlers to see
They denied us the pride of a culture’s dignity
When sabr left,
we planted watermelon seeds

Grew symbols and ate them piece by peace
A juicy flesh beneath thin layers of green
Digging out an escape
For those meant to be free
Our politics, a spoon carved out of stone

It is with a rock in hand that a Palestinian is born