As for me—If I must die, let my body remain whole.

You were / The sigh of an orange tree / The hymn of faith, and love, and joy.

I know my poem won’t / prevent the next bomb / won’t even save itself / from choking under the rubble.

He and she spoke by phone / the night before their wedding / certain their heartbeats/ could end the war/ the endless bombardment, the screams.

My cousin Malak has experienced displacement and terrible family loss. Now as she mourns, she longs for someone to listen to her story.

I am nineteen, they say / but do not mistake this number / for youth or innocence.

I’m searching for a place that might hold me apart from this chaos or from the life that presses in from every side.

How will students in Gaza reach their dreams when the war has destroyed the educational infrastructure?

The captain of Gaza’s national volleyball team and father of four was killed by Israel at an aid distribution site.

You scroll and witness a child chasing a water truck / your heart shatters in the silent chase.

Exiled from his homeland, overworked, and burdened by debt, my nephew Ahmed dreamed of reuniting his family and a better life for his children.

We seek refreshment and escape along the coastline, but Israel forbids us from entering the water and drops bombs along the shore.