Palestinians use Gaza’s ruins to dry their laundry. Commons image
By Mark Cassidy
Back from the refill shop, weighed down
with staples, I pour loose flour into Kilner jars
watchful not to spill the meanest scruple.
But I’ve misjudged capacity,
bought more than there is storage for.
The funnel overruns: I ask myself
(were it allowed) how many people could
our surplus feed. And how long for?
Here is our laundry, soaked and rinsed and wrung
by hand, or pulled from drum to basket in wet lumps:
the mundane that makes us human,
going out and coming in like a tide.
We do not dress in salt-damp clothes.
My town has fuel enough – its water pumped
and clean. There’s soap to buy.
No dust of demolition in the wind.
Replanting our backyard in terracotta
is a long-term proposition, a luxury.
To recover what has been starved,
cut down, polluted and uprooted
needs more than water and new soil.
I gaze at my earth-dirty hands,
believe in century-old harvests, and
grieve at the absence of olive branches.
