ANY GIVEN SOLDIER
by E. H. Hamdan
BERESHIT
It is winter. The muting snow lays itself, without a care, across all the rugged peaks of the world. We look out the window at the dancing salt-pillar trees and the dogs a-bark and a-rasp, two-legged up and up, then struck back down to the level field of all beasts. World struck flat with punches. We watch from the window as We walk into the clearing beneath a slow crow-black slew and its ceilinged stars, mumbling ministers, conspiracy-silent, above a sea unseen for all its white quiet. We watch We walk. We don't know the novelty of numbers. All ones are zeroed into self-eating circles. Doors and porticos. We squat and feel our naked rear, pale like icebox butter, numb sharp in the dumb snow. We watch the dogs draw waning circles. We hear them sink into snoring. Then the slow piston push and start of invisible machines shifting in their twain-carve dance up and down and up and down again. This first enmity. Enemy mine. One last push and We or He or I, not She (We know now), goes crown-down into the snow. Tries to swim but it's all him so simply sinks. Ears and eyes gone deaf and blind; turned only inward forever. Forever. All worlds woven into One.
SHAMAYIM
It is winter. Sun high and pale; the ice bright in its slide. Fathers mothers children ride the spine of the hill; disappear into a pubis of trees. But one could stand on top and go nowhere at all. One could glass-gaze from on high and feel one's own private sky. Eden deadened by clay-dust winter. Creations descending and disappearing into the wood. But our stars above don't move: not even for love. She-wolves nipping at unafraid infant heels. One could count their breaths to death waiting for the sky to move. One could count their breaths and still end at zero. It's empty up there. One knows as well as one knows anything that it is dead empty up there. Heir to air alone. All suns woven into One.
ERETZ
It is winter. In Gaza, you smell green garlic. High bitter ends. The burns on the children are open like the spring-seeded hearts of flowers. Too-soon blooms. Foul sounds wind round across above the Red Sea. You see new red in this old forgotten firmament. All fathers are murdered here. You feel the rumble and watch a great new plinth, carpet of Moses, unfurl itself in shreds and patches. You see black beetle drones buzz through the hum of incendiary air. The coast is cut from sky to sand by laser light: blade-thin as hot as the phosphorous. You see it all as if from above. Women writhing and weeping. Sons with guns in each hand. Concrete melted into magma. Last year, children danced here. Where are they now? You saw it from above then too: clear as a bell. All hells woven into One.
ARCHE
IT IS WINTER AND I AM AN IMPOSSIBLE THING OUT HERE IN THIS CLEARING THERE IS NO SNOW FALLING FROM A SKY I CANNOT SEE THE STARS ARE MOVING IN THE FIRMAMENT OF WHITE LILY WILL-WOVEN PALM OF GOD DAMNED ARE THE ONES WHO WAIT FOR SIGNS BY THE ROAD WAY TO DALLAS WAY TO LANGLEY WAY TO WICHITA WAY TO GENEVA WAY TO HAIFA TO JERUSALEM TO TEL'AVIV TO AL-AQSA TO KHAN YOUNIS TO AL-SHIFA TO RAFAH WAY TO DAMASCUS WAY TO CAIRO AND KANSAS AND COLORADO AND NOWHERE WAY TO NOWHERE AT ALL THIS AMERICAN PRAIRIE IS DEAD FIRE AND THE FIRE BURNS THE OLIVE TREES TO OLD ADAM EARTH. DUST AND DUST AND DUST AGAIN. CLOSE THE CURTAINS. CLOSE THE CURTAINS. CLOSE THE CURTAINS. DRAW A CIRCLE IN THIS FIRE. MY MOTHER WAS A RED HEIFER. MY FATHER WAS WHITE PHOSPHOROUS. EUROPA. EUROPA. THE SUN SETS BEHIND MY EYES. TAKE ME BREAK ME ON THE LOOM. CLOSE THE CURTAINS. CLOSE THE CURTAINS. CLOSE THE CURTAINS.