Seeds Renee Yaseen

12

Seeds

Renee Yaseen

After Fairuz and Khalil Gibran

When Gibran sang through the voice of Arab nations the spittle grew flowers. We and the ground were brave and watered. Of flowers and fruit, to Fairuz, the sky was close, Heaven, she meant, was close. the desert rose never needs much Miracles lined each stem.

My forefathers plant.

I come from where land means Pomelos, bright juice, sweetened sun, where Fruit is fruit. Ten years ago, my uncle promised me a turtle and a handful of snails From our orchard. So much has changed. But turtles still eat tomatoes.

I grew up with mentions of seeds ringing in my ears. From the news. The prisoner Behind my eyes beat against the walls, berserk, and cried out: Where will you plant them?

In the burning field, or in its ashes— Will you press them to the belly of a rubber tire seen on fire. Thrust into the river, Will you run? Or will you warn?

By the time there would be time For time, The fields would be dry and barren. The seed of democracy Doesn’t grow on scorched earth. We know,

That a poet sang earsplitting to the horses and the sheep. In earnest in a valley. Cut scores of silence across the Earth, reduced, Into pieces to play and re-play on the radio. We are the ones who do not hear.

And I have not heard since, Embraces from a wind Ten years old and aimless Behind orange trees, White snails sunbathing And dipping in dew That drips from my home. Oh, how it aches inside of me. 13