West Bank Checkpoint, 2016

April 24, 2023

A Jewish woman waits white haired and bending. Her hands
gentle on the back of a Palestinian boy. She begs
the Israeli soldiers – still pimpled and new
to shaving – He has only gone for bread. Please let him thru.

In my pocket, the postcard from a camp New Hampshire, a ragged note
from my eight-year-old son. Dear Mama and Mommy, I’m fine
Love, JL. My son, half Black half Jewish, is the color 
of the Palestinian boy. In America
he so Black inside his light skin that we pray
he lives long enough to hold the weight of love / not war
inside the palm of a shaking arthritic hand. But if it is war then
let him place that hand lovingly on the back of someone
he has been called upon to fight.

At a restaurant the year before, a white woman
looked at him – Front tooth missing, hair standing
at a blue mohawk’s attention. Cheeks baby-fat full
and pulled her handbag closer. I have known mothers
of similar sons with sadder stories to tell.

And now the old woman nods as the soldiers, firearms
heavy on their narrow backs, belligerent still
inside their own youth scowl but
pull the gate aside to let the boy through,
then goes back to her seat, her work,
the work of mothers everywhere done,

for now.