Day 581

She was only eleven
when she was chased
from her house
by a brutal mob, claiming
it was theirs.  Seventy-seven
years.  Seventy-seven years
moving from one camp, one city
to another, perpetual
refugee, having lost
home, childhood, neighborhood,
friends.  Building a house,
fleeing as the house was bombed.
Another house, another bombing.
Building and building without
end, without believing
any house would stand.  Without
losing hope.  Without
losing love.  Each house
destroyed.  Then a tent
destroyed.  Another tent.  She,
miraculously, still alive.  Eighty-eight.
Shouting back at the soldier now
from her wheelchair.  Shouting
at him that she will never
leave, never (after seventy-
seven years, at eighty-eight)|
will she abandon Gaza,
this place that belongs to her.
She, told for seventy-seven years
that she doesn’t belong.