“Where do you bury a little boy’s leg?”
Asked the doctor who had to amputate it
with no anesthesia,
for the little boy to survive,
or not.
How much can a little boy endure
when the most crowded place on earth,
the most alive,
becomes the most crowded graveyard
for wiped-out families,
in a world of dead hearts, blind eyes, dysfunctional hands,
and useless laws?
How much can a little boy in Gaza endure
when a glass of water is worth a river of blood,
when a loaf of bread is worth a sea of tears,
when a safe shelter is worth a trail of tears,
blood, sweat, hugs, goodbyes, fire, dust, cries,
why, where, and when?
Why do children have to write their names
on their legs and arms
and not on their new school books?
Why do they have to run
as walls everywhere collapse?
Why do they bleed and survive,
wounded and alone
to die in the next airstrike?
The sky is occupied by drones
that hate birds and children.
Every gasp of air is dust and white phosphorus.
Every chamber is an oven for body parts.
Every tent is a linen shroud.
So where to bury a little boy’s leg
other than in his mama’s heart.

Nawel Abdallah is a Palestinian-Tunisian poet and writer based in Berlin. With degrees in Medical Biotechnology and North American Studies, she explores themes of identity, memory, and belonging in both Arabic and English. Her poetry has been featured in And Other Poems and Tint Journal.