Identity.

Red Crescent, not Cross, suits Palestine best,
And candy-pink paint is peeling from walls.
Impermanence rules, and will, too, with you.
You, while I cradle and nuzzle your hair.
You, tiny baby—ideologically,
you are a crossroads and eventually—soon—
there will come a choice. Palestinian
Israeli is not a contradiction,
though your document reads Jerusalem
alone. No nation is yours, no land is
your home. This city was cut from the face
of the world, and its serrated edges
now frame your soft face. I can see your blood
like that, you know, right through your paper skin.
I could see your soul like that, you know, right
through your new-formed eyes. Now, perfect child,
tell me who you will become. Show me the
papers; let me see protest signs or a
diploma, pipe bombs or smiling children.
Where is your passport, your definition?
If later you walk through a camera
lens, right behind an American man
who talks through my news, will something in me
recognize you? I held that child, I
fed milk to that boy and cradled his head
while he burped, nudging my hand with his tongue.
Tell me who you are.
I can’t read in Arabic.