she’s the 8th wonder of the world

the only one still intact

her stories resound deeper

than the crater of the cruelest bomb 

she carried her drinking water 

potted on her head

baby in her arms

world on her shoulders

she cooked exquisite three-course meals 

on Dheisha refugee camp’s burnt asphalt 

no kitchen but a tiny can 

of stifling, flickering kerosene

she gave birth to the world’s 

youngest political prisoner

her weary womb 

the cradle of martyrs 

she giggles in your face

when you ask for a recipe

her calloused hands pinch 

sacred inimitable seasoning

her hangs laundry immaculately

in the sun, a straight path to Allah

she teaches my children Qu’ran

surah by cosmic surah  

she responds to the simple question 

bidik ishi – want anything? – with

bidi Allah y’barak fiku – 

I want God to bless you 

she’s the thorn 

in the heel of endless empire

her sweat waters the gardens 

keeping our starving children alive

her pulse fuels 

tomorrow’s revolution

she says her aching fingers

have forgotten tatreez

but she tenderly 

cross stitches back together

the shattered shards 

of our hearts