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I slice sentences to turn them into
onions. On this chopping board, they
seem more organised,
as if with a little effort
I could begin
to understand their shape.

 

At my back, the news is the same
as usual. A train
blown up, hostages taken.
Outside, in Pollokshields, the rain.

 

I go upstairs, come down.
I go to the kitchen. When things are in their place,
they look less difficult.
I cut and chop. I don’t need to see,
through onion tears,
my own hand power the knife.

 

Here is the food. I put it on the table.
The tablecloth is fine cutwork,
sent from home. Beneath it, Gaza
is a spreading watermark.

 

Here are the facts, fine
as onion rings.
The same ones can come chopped
or sliced.

 

Shoes, kitchens, onions can be left
behind, but at a price.
Knowledge is something you can choose
to give away,
but giving and taking leave a stain.

 

Who gave the gift of Palestine?

 

Cut this. Chop this,
this delicate thing
haloed in onion skin.

 

Your generosity turns my hands
to knives,
the tablecloth to fire.

 

Outside, on the face of Jerusalem,
I feel the rain.
Imtiaz Dharker. “The terrorist at my table.” The terrorist at my table, Bloodaxe Books, 2006.
Published with permission from Bloodaxe Books. www. bloodaxebooks.com

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