Voices
“I am working under the voices of fire”
Shareef Sarhan, Gaza[1]
I was working under the voices of fire.
I was working in the night, bled white.
I was cracking open the shell to see inside.
I was sunning myself by the glow of shrapnel.
I was tunneling, t
ugging at something soft.
I was a tunnel through which no one came.
I was the other end.
I slept only once in the bed of voices.
My shirt was woven of voices.
My home was built on the rubble of voices.
I planted green grapes in the black loam.
I chopped voices into splinters.
There were voices.
In our new names, in the finishing rooms there were voices.
So did the harness, hood, shackles, broom handles have voices.
In the child the voices were spinning.
God was no-voice.
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