if you unzip the doctor’s suit
of my palestinian husband’s mind,
underneath the clutter and debris,
you will find the vibrant soul
of a homeless man, chewing
the fat with the open air.
he begs for a slice of bread
and water, just a mile from
his former home in
jerusalem.
he nibbles and sips
before turning one ear
towards stringed notes
ringing through the
neighborhood;
music from the chamber of
his familial home.
twelve generations of oud playing
spiral through his mind like a symphony
of resounding voices.
— —
soon the voices fade
into the backdrop.
i find myself
losing my
own voice
as narrator
in this word-
coffee shop
where we
both now sit.
or maybe i have
lost my mind.
apparently the
homeless man
i mentioned does
not exist.
not even
a little bit.
there is no
generational
home in east
jerusalem.
no one ever
played the oud.
there isn’t even such
a thing as a palestinian
doctor.
therefore i am a liar.
i am a liar.
so i have
been told.
i bet you
believe it, too.