Variations on a Last Chance
for Gaza
The fence does not hold.
The wire sheds its barbs, softens to silk thread.
The snipers run out of bullets.
The desert, as it always has, of its own volition, blooms.
The snipers are distracted, sexting their girlfriends.
The snipers’ eyes are blinded by smoke from our burning tires.
The snipers wonder if they will ever see the end of us.
The fence does not hold.
The snipers take a lunch break.
The bullets melt in their chambers.
The bullets disintegrate when they reach the word PRESS on Yasser’s vest.
The news finally breaks the stillness around us.
The bullets will themselves away from the boy’s skull.
The boy’s sandals sprout wings and he hovers above the bullets’ path.
The snipers do not shoot at the medics evacuating the wounded.
The snipers make eye contact with one of us and see.
There are enough saline bags at the hospital.
The snipers shoot and miss and miss and miss.
We outrun the snipers.
We bury the dead at the fence, let their roots bloom on the other side of home.
The fence does not hold.
The wire sheds its barbs, softens to silk thread.
The snipers run out of bullets.
The desert, as it always has, of its own volition, blooms.
The snipers are distracted, sexting their girlfriends.
The snipers’ eyes are blinded by smoke from our burning tires.
The snipers wonder if they will ever see the end of us.
The fence does not hold.
The snipers take a lunch break.
The bullets melt in their chambers.
The bullets disintegrate when they reach the word PRESS on Yasser’s vest.
The news finally breaks the stillness around us.
The bullets will themselves away from the boy’s skull.
The boy’s sandals sprout wings and he hovers above the bullets’ path.
The snipers do not shoot at the medics evacuating the wounded.
The snipers make eye contact with one of us and see.
There are enough saline bags at the hospital.
The snipers shoot and miss and miss and miss.
We outrun the snipers.
We bury the dead at the fence, let their roots bloom on the other side of home.
Lena Khalaf Tuffaha is a poet, essayist, and translator. Her first book of poems, WATER & SALT, won the 2018 Washington State Book Award. She is also the author of two chapbooks, ARAB IN NEWSLAND, winner of the 2016 Two Sylvia’s Prize, and LETTERS FROM THE INTERIOR, finalist for the 2020 Jean Pedrick Chapbook Prize. She is the recipient of a 2019 Artist Trust Fellowship, a Hedgebrook alum, and served as the inaugural Poet-In-Residence at Open Books: A Poem Emporium in Seattle. You can learn more about her work at www.lenakhalaftuffaha.com