West Bank, 2002
Military jeep lights whirl
orange in the night. Neon
buzzes over an empty arcade.
Stray dogs scatter. I stretch
out at my family’s farthest
olive grove, the ground cool
on my back. I turn my face
into crumbs of dirt. I smell
the earth, and make myself
smell of it. In the night-black
hills, I take off all of my clothes
and let the air stroke my ass,
pressing my body against bark
until my skin begins to itch.
I pluck an olive and punt it
toward the dark hills dusted
with light—Palestinian villages,
gold clusters nestled in the night.
When the terrain before me
ignites in a barrel of cold light,
I see the fortified settlement
behind curlicued concertina,
their screened windows—
orange or gold; dim or bright.
I gauge the distance between us
and I run, the soil shining in
the light sweeping the land.
When I’m close, I crouch low.
I crawl. I lie flat on my stomach
and inch forward on my forearms
like a sneaking soldier, dragging
my naked body toward them,
breathing the soil and the stones.
Originally published in Poet Lore, Volume 116 3/4, Winter/Spring 2022
Edward Salem is the author of Monk Fruit (Nightboat Books, 2025) and the co-founder of City of Asylum/Detroit.
Part of our 2024 Fiction Issue.
