When I look at photos of my beloved cousins, it reminds me that I wasn’t there to comfort or honor them when they were martyred.

I try to scrub your absence from my skin / but you were the sunlight, noor.

Ibrahim’s crime was to stand near a target, and his death was sanitized by the term ‘collateral damage.’

Now all that’s left is ruins / The child and the poet / Both orphans.

My sister Islam, who shared my love of tape recording, was diligent, patient, and far brighter than me.

Gaza detainees talk about their time in israeli prisons.

Wash us with the water of hope / and clothe us in a white garment / not a shroud. 

Identifying the bodies of returned resistance fighters was deeply distressing for family members and loved ones.

A new year, / they say. / But here— / it’s an alarm. / Not hope. / Not renewal.

After a year, the body of Santa is / still under the rubble along with / his bag of gifts and the list of names / of the children.

My two childhood companions were martyred within a day of each other. Where is humanity? Where is global conscience?

I tremble each time / a table of food / appears before me.