When I Get Drunk and Think of Palestine
When I get drunk and think of Palestine,
I think of figs and my grandmother’s plants
and how the cocoa always had a thick layer
of greyish skin and tasted
of powdered milk.
I think of blue carrots
and the lemon groves
where we found that dying bat
clinging to a branch
barely breathing with tired wings.
I think of limestone buildings
warming in the summer sun
and the dark basement full of grain
doused and dripping with
the scent of kerosene.
I think of village weddings
and pale nights spent on the roof,
the sweet scent of apple tobacco
bubbling in the water pipe
our hands faded henna red.
I think of soldiers and
my cousin’s plastic gun
and the morning they stormed his house
stomping over my grandmother’s screams
when he pointed it straight at their hearts.
By Fatima Sausan Masoud
A Palestinian-American born in the southwest, Fatima Sausan Masoud (she/her) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso. She lives in El Paso and teaches First Year Composition and Elementary Arabic at the same university. She finds time to write in the in-between spaces when her kids are asleep. Find her on Instagram (@applewhiskey).