by Bonnie Naradzay
The time for harvesting olives heightens the ancient moan of violence.
Palestine, your olive oil has survived the deadly zone of violence.
The sound of Arabic floats above silvery trees in ancient olive groves.
Whole families, visible in the fields: targets for stone hurling violence.
Our trees, bulldozed. We’ll plant more, and water them with our tears.
Arson has carried away our harvest with its fiery wind-blown violence.
O Hebron, the IDF militants are complacent and look the other way.
Trespassing, masked settlers swing chains: bone breaking violence.
What use, coming to the table, weakly mouthing conciliatory terms?
I tell you, Nablus reels from rubber bullets, the harsh tone of violence.
The police station’s located in an illegal settlement. Why complain?
Eye-witness alone are left to smuggle the word of this unknown violence.
Where are the village festivals and celebrations at olive harvest time?
Instead of sowing seeds, our children grow to anger, honed from violence.
Bonnie Naradzay lives in Silver Spring, Maryland, earned an MFA from the University of Southern Maine (Stonecoast) in 2008, and has published in numerous print and online journals.
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