I pick fresh hearts from the street
the most defeated ones
with nimble fingers I steal the tears
I fill rusted sardine tins with the smell of sorrow.
Mothers’ glances cling tight to their eyes
but I snatch them easily, because I resemble their children.
In a copper pot
I boil what I’ve stolen
add the blood that hadn't been absorbed
& sawdust from a coffin meant as the door to a new home.
I pour the mixture into my heart
until it blackens.
This is how I cook my grief
To read more about Batool Abu Akleenv, please go to https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/oct/05/my-poems-are-part-of-my-flesh-palestinian-poet-batool-abu-akleen-on-life-in-gaza
In the words of Howard Zinn, "They have the guns. We have the poetry. We will win in the end."
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