Lisa Suhair Majaj

how a word transforms us
seedling taking delicate hold
or a weed choking the tender plants
news enters us and puts down roots

what's left but
shards of memory
smoothed and hoarded,
shrapnel griefs,
a few regrets?

Did my parents know
that what they planted,
roots against the drought,
would survive?

The sun will rise again tomorrow,
vigilant and weary as hope.

Once she could have held anything steady
and safe: a glass of tea, her brother's baby.
Now her hands shake at the weight of a fork.

so I hoard memories
sort them for seeds to plant
pray they root

Today his words surround me
with the quiet intensity of growing things,
roots planted a long time ago
lacing the distances of my heart.

She took her slice of life
then gave without measuring
or counting

The distance between one breath and another
is like the miles starlight travels to reach
my dreams.

consider the infinite fragility of an infant's skull,
how the bones lie soft and open
only time knitting them shut

soon syllables will fall from her lips
the first rain

Who knew the past would follow us so far,
years collapsing like an ancient accordion,
scraps of memory tucked like torn photographs
into the sockets of our eyes?

Now we walk out into the tunnel of days
and a million memories rustle

hopes
for peace: hand clasped in hand
firmer than fist on a gun
or club, hand raised in greeting
stronger than hand raised for violence

Part of it hides behind the headlines
where this shard of the story will never be told.