Tata Bahiyeh
Tata Bahiyeh was light
in the bones, and older
than anyone: hands stained
with brown spots, flesh
so dry it folded
in ridges. Her touch
was like jasmine
flowering at night,
secret life slow
through the tough brown vine.
Bahiyeh loved apricots,
suns fruit, rivulets
sweet down her storied
skin. The pits she spat
in her palm were a promise,
not to be wasted. Cracked,
you could eat the firm
white heart within. Planted,
seed pledged to grow.
Bahiyeh was like all
the old ones, longing
for earth and the light
off Al-Aqsa, olive trees
rooted on hills -- prayers
under breathing. Their eyes
were pathways, marked out
and empty: at least
to be buried there,
earth cradling bones
in a final planting.
Like all of them,
she tucked packets
of tissue-wrapped seeds
(each with its story)
in drawers, behind
clocks, on shelves:
to plant in the better time,
insha'alah. Meanwhile,
travelers eastward
brought cuttings, sprigs
in the luggage: olive
and plum, bitter orange
and sweet black grape.
*
She didn't want much
in death, just a place
to rest. She was lucky,
had the papers, could cross.
But when Bahiyeh died,
the soldiers dumped her body
without ceremony
on the concrete floor;
probed roughly
into sheltered crevices
of her stiffened corpse.
They expected contraband,
money, munitions,
anything but death.
They found
what they should
have expected.
What light
remained in her bones
still beyond desecrating hands
shone hidden
and private.
*
When you look,
you find seeds, dusty
and shriveled,
brown shells fragile
like ancient bones.
You remember
how to lay kernels
in earth, pour water,
wait for the green
shoot thrusting,
amazed how seeds
harbor their light
within. Bahiyehs bones
lie buried in girlhood
soil. You watch for
that steady emanation
of light. You learn
how to wait
after planting.
Published in Al Jadid (1996); International Quarterly (1994); Mr. Cogito (1991). Translated into Arabic and published in the Arabic version of the Anthology of Modern Palestinian Literature, ed. Salma Khadra
