A poem by Jess Semaan

Is it a massacre if it is a Palestinian?

Is it fall if the leaves haven’t fallen?

I watch an old Asian lady picking fallen leaves by hand

One by one

I watch my grandmother picking edges of fresh grape leaves

One by one

I watch my mother walking away from who once was a daughter

Is there anything that a war does not break?

My friend tells me I am her only Arab friend

Does that make me a history teacher?

Is it hard to spell Palestine?

What truth lies between letters of a word?

What is a country?

But a hollow vessel

A desperate call for a rest

I fall as I sleep walk

Looking for my mother’s eyes

To tell her

It was always the war

It still is the war

The leaves fall

I did not know of another season

Until the old Asian lady picked the fallen leaves one by one

Who picks the corpses in Gaza?

Are the hands picking them gentle?

I want to say sorry to a mother who confused daughter for war