"A true Arab knows how to catch a fly in his hands," <br />my father would say. And he'd prove it, <br />cupping the buzzer instantly <br />while the host with the swatter stared. <br /> <br />In the spring our palms peeled like snakes. <br />True Arabs believed watermelon could heal fifty ways. <br />I changed these to fit the occasion. <br /> <br />Years before, a girl knocked, <br />wanted to see the Arab. <br />I said we didn't have one. <br />After that, my father told me who he was, <br />"Shihab"--"shooting star"-- <br />a good name, borrowed from the sky. <br />Once I said, "When we die, we give it back?" <br />He said that's what a true Arab would say. <br /> <br />Today the headlines clot in my blood. <br />A little Palestinian dangles a truck on the front page. <br />Homeless fig, this tragedy with a terrible root <br />is too big for us. What flag can we wave? <br />I wave the flag of stone and seed, <br />table mat stitched in blue. <br /> <br />I call my father, we talk around the news. <br />It is too much for him, <br />neither of his two languages can reach it. <br />I drive into the country to find sheep, cows, <br />to plead with the air: <br />Who calls anyone civilized? <br />Where can the crying heart graze? <br />What does a true Arab do now?<br /><br />Naomi Shihab Nye<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blood/
