Gaza is starving and I’m going to brunch

Today, I have writer’s block.
I don’t know which disaster is more poetic to describe,
or which horror will be easier to rhyme.
I wonder which words would be better
to capture the color of skin,
sallow and pale from hunger.

It’s so easy to say
“Gaza is starving”
like it’s a singular entity.
How much harder would it be to
write out every single name?
To choke out syllables, mispronouncing them
like it’s graduation?
And no one wants to shake any hands,
they’re too bony, the fingers too calloused,
palms stained charcoal black from the rubble.

Is that too political? Are you tired
of the ad-breaks,
of the day-ruining pictures
interrupting
your regularly scheduled scrolling?

I keep catching myself looking in the mirror,
studying my features from left to right or
thinking about the type of poem I want to write,
ashamed of how even now,
I want you to tell me my words are beautiful.

I hide my protests behind the strokes of a keyboard,
drawing inspiration from the headlines
that flood my inbox, reading about severed bloodlines or
mothers crying over their children and thinking
Write that down, like if I turn it into art it’ll hurt less.

I pin pretty quotes to my Pinterest board, and they tell me that
“everything is going to be okay.”
What did I do to deserve such a flimsy hope,
a paper-thin promise of “world peace?” It’s almost funny
to consider the pang I feel, in my heart or the pit of my stomach
thinking about how to cope with knowing that people are suffering;
what a luxurious problem to have.
I can take mental health days
or sleep in or cry myself to sleep.
I can’t pick 
a drink from a menu with words like “lavender” and “teddy bear” — all the ways
to calm us down in these “tough times” because
God forbid we feel a little uncomfortable.
God forbid my latte is a little watered down
or they use the wrong milk
or I ask for iced and they give me
hot,
hot like the white hot rage in the back of my throat,
hot like the burn of starvation,
hot like the flush of embarrassment

a flare behind my eyelids
of guilty tears trying to escape,
because I can remember the last time I ate.

I can remember what it feels like to be full, to push a plate away the scrape is stuck in my eardrums, it continues to replay.
I complain about doing dishes, recoil from the wet touch of remains
of my food, realizing my sink carries more calories
than some have eaten in months.

I’m sorry if my writing is too depressing,
sorry if my lack of enthusiasm
bleeds through the page.
I’m trying to see the glass half full but it’s hard
when my thoughts are flooded
with the image of sunken eyes and ribs,
an empty, broken cup, shards scattered across the floor of a tent.

I want my poems to stick in your mind like honey,
sickly sweet and impossible to remove;
I want to be remembered.
I want to live at a time when there’s less to write about,
when I’m just another poet obsessed with the rain;
I want to be forgotten.

I write and rewrite, my backspace stained from the oils of my hand.
How do I format an apology for everything I have and have not done?
For the walks I take in the morning to get my steps in,
for the ice that slips from my fingers to the cold kitchen floor,
for the swipe of my finger away from another witness against me on judgement day.

May I be forgiven despite my crimes, and
may the fruits of heaven satiate the hunger of Gaza’s people forever.

MiC Columnist Amany Sayed can be reached at amanysay@umich.edu.

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