lirik lagu naomi shihab nye – the words under the words
for sitti khadra, north of jerusalem
my grandmother’s hands recognize grapes
the damp shine of a goat’s new skin
when i was sick they followed me
i woke from the long fever to find them
covering my head like cool prayers
my grandmother’s days are made of bread
a round pat-pat and the slow baking
she waits by the oven watching a strange car
circle the streets. maybe it holds her son
lost to america. more often, tourists
who kneel and weep at mysterious shrines
she knows how often mail arrives
how rarely there is a letter
when one comes, she announces it, a miracle
listening to it read again and again
in the dim evening light
my grandmother’s voice says nothing can surprise her
take her the shotgun wound and the crippled baby
she knows the sp-ces we travel through
the messages we cannot send—our voices are short
and would get lost on the journey
farewell to the husband’s coat
the ones she has loved and nourished
who fly from her like seeds into a deep sky
they will plant themselves. we will all die
my grandmother’s eyes say allah is everywhere, even in death
when she talks of the orchard and the new olive press
when she tells the stories of joha and his foolish wisdoms
he is her first thought, what she really thinks of is his name
“answer, if you hear the words under the words—
otherwise it is just a world with a lot of rough edges
difficult to get through, and our pockets full of stones.”
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