1988, West Bank
We dressed your mother when the roads
reopened. The women draped
a black cloak over her shoulders
until she was safe inside. The church
lit up like a jack o’ lantern. The boys
rubbed their faces with onions, inhaled
deep to clear the fumes from the gunfire,
Souls turned over
in their graves. Your parents
married all hallow’s eve while it rained
bullets over the minarets. No reception,
but your grandfather may he rest in peace
served a supper of lamb and rice with pine nuts.
Inside his house we ate and were full.
Your parents were young. Your father
loved your mother. She was afraid.
Jessica Abughattas is a Palestinian American MFA candidate at Antioch University and Associate Managing Editor of Lunch Ticket. Her writing is published, or forthcoming, in Thrush, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, Rogue Agent, and elsewhere.