POEM

When the Dead Cannot Bury their Dead

Mourning genocide in Gaza

Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem poses for a picture with children at the Holy Family Church in the Zeitoun neighbourhood in Gaza City [Omar Al-Qattaa/AFP]

When the Dead Cannot Bury their Dead

I.
We stood, reciting the names of the dead.
I, a non-Jewish Jew,
violated someone’s norms.

Forgive me.
I needed to share my grief with someone.
I needed to unburden myself with a siren song.

The list of the dead dragged across many pages:
families grouped together,
babies shrieking,
thousands seeking shelter in each other’s arms.

Just as they had done when the bombs
pummelled their houses into shards.

II.

We were embarrassed.
Pronunciations were odd.
Arabic articles mixed
with Hebrew and British dictions.

I asked myself why we mourn
and for whom we mourn
when the dead are gone.