Two Poems

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Dreamsand

Gazan shovel after Noran Bilal Ismael, 9

No one believed her heart had hopped the fence of her
 body and made it as far as the treeline. If it was a dream,

she thought, the trees would be taller. If she falls she flies
 over Al-Khalil, soaring through bones of moonlight like

a heart blown free of a ribcage. No one accepted the
 part where it lands in the road still beating. Or the butterfly,

shedding its wings in the street and crawling into
 the possible future of a chrysalis it weaves itself from the

dreamsand. That the gauze stapled over burns in the sky
is made from cotton grown in Texas. Or that candy, like

 cotton, has roots in Arabic. The word phosphorus leaves
a taste there until morning. No one wakes up on

top of an oak tree and everyone is convinced, for a
moment an angel is sitting next to her on the branch.

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Eyes are for looking

Gazan shovel after Fatema Saidam, 9

Sun arrives eight minutes late to her eyes
covered in the light leftover when stars are
devoured. Like yesterday, he apologises for
leaving in the night. Without ever looking

guilty, he hoses the residue from his legs,
the thin bruised green of olive trees that are
beaten in Burin. He says he only does it for
their fruit, he won’t say they were running.

.

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Sam Harvey is an experimental poet, visual artist and musician.

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