A Touch of Fashion

She wore a dress of feathers.

She was sister to the moon,

stoned for her healing touch.

She wore the robe of Isis,

priestess of the north wind,

beaten for her sacred touch.

She wore gold-threaded silk,

this Maharani daughter,

burned for her widow’s touch.

She wore a silk cheongsam,

frst child in a Chengdu family,

killed for her baby’s touch.

She wore a dress of kente cloth,

servant to a queen,

secret place cut for her sensual touch.

She wore a woolen head scarf,

this brave Pakistani schoolgirl,

shot for learning truth’s touch.

Letter to the Parents of Prospective Suicide Bombers

Who will tend your olive groves when you are old,

rebuild your war-torn houses, fnd treasures

in the rubble of innocent lives?

I haven’t walked in your shoes, buried good men,

felt your despair. My heart has not been torn by death—

of a child, a family, whole neighborhood.

I cannot tell you how to live,

whom to trust—or hate. But I can beg

for the lives of your children.

I weep for children everywhere: hungry,

afraid, alone. But especially for those we raise

to bomb themselves—and others.

There has to be another door that opens

into light, where everyone sits at the same

table, listening to children’s laughter.In Arabic