poem for sa’adia

sa’adia you died in 1967
whose blood was on your hands i don’t
want to know i’m more interested now
in whose hands your soul
was strangled with

i am not yet a woman
with hands that can touch fire without pain
i have born witness though
a heavy child long overdue
words born now too late

today i will attend a talk
by a scholar
who will ask and answer the question,
“can yemenite-jewish wailing be regarded as erotic performance?”
i will be queer and academic
a wailing arab woman all
at once

did your mother wail sa’adia
when you went to die
for the state that sprayed you,
housed you in a tent called you
savage
she wailed
for back home
for the loss of you

while i am in this talk sa’adia
an american man called troy davis will be put to death.
he was too shakhor
to be granted life by the state

i’m wailing for you sa’adia
i’m wailing for troy davis
i’m wailing for
whose blood is on
your hands,
my hands.

klilililililililililililili

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About mirit mizrahi

artist, writer, activist, giant. זהירות! אני מזרחית
This entry was posted in mizrahi identity, palestine-israel, poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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