Descendent
- Red
I can't tell if it's mud or blood coating the ground. It seeps beneath the trees because they're the only things left standing. The leaves are thirsty, but the rain has been stolen and replaced with bombs. They flood buildings until the stones are on their knees. This city's bones are broken, and they're not allowed to rest in the ground.
- Black
I am both kuffiyeh lines: I am the olive, and I am the fish. I live on this land through the branches my ancestors grew, the roots that rip up the earth reaching every continent. I live off this sea through the nets my ancestors threw, the ropes that cut the water connecting every island shore. I only live because they taught me how.
- White
Faces are covered in dust so thick they have to be carved back into place. Building blocks that were once a sitti's home are now building the graves of her grandchildren, their bodies cementing the cracks, their last home. Families dig for their daughters, search for their sons, aware that even one wrong shift will bring them their own graves.
- Green
I can't tell if it's blood. I am the fish. Carve me into place. Serve me with the olives picked from sedi's trees. Their leaves are thirsty, but their roots reach. They line the graves, every one a new garden. This city is broken, not abandoned. We connect distant lands, build these blocks into roads that lead us back. My blood is my key. We will not rest until we are in the ground.
By Lana Issam Ghannam
Biography:
Lana Issam Ghannam is a first-generation Palestinian-American, born and raised in Central Florida. She received her MFA from the University of Central Florida and is the author of two collections of poetry: Evolution of Stone (Swan Scythe Press, 2021) and Two Tongues (Finishing Line Press, 2019). Ghannam's poetry has appeared in South Dakota Review, The Revolution (Relaunch), Burrow Press, Raleigh Review, Mississippi Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Sukoon, and The Cape Rock, among other journals.
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