In winter, as my body adjusts,
I visit the toilet more often
and feel I must sing in praise
of my Palestinian bladder.

If Darwin were alive,
he would rank our bladders
high among the mutations,
for surviving massive stress.

Two years ago, on my departure from Gaza,
my bladder held on for 12 hours,
holding off on that wished-for release,
until the toilets at the border.

During three aerial bombardments,
it held, strong and tight,
defiant in the face of fear,
with nearby toilets blown to bits.

Gaza has no public toilets,
so as I hurry down the street,
I sing a love song to my bladder:
Stay strong, hold on, we’re almost home.