I’d like to take Donald Trump to Palestine,
set him free in the streets of Ramallah or Nablus
amidst all the winners who never gave up in sixty-nine years.
They’d like to make their country great again too,
if only their hands weren’t tied by the weapons
our country donates. Let’s talk about who belongs where,
how an immigrant to Israel is treated better than someone
who tended a tree for a hundred years. Who lies?
Let’s talk about lies. Give it a shout! They built a wall
so ugly, kids must dream of flying over,
or burrowing under, and it didn’t solve anything.
I’d wrap a keffiyeh around his head,
tuck some warm falafels into his pockets,
let him wander alleyways and streets,
rubble and hope mixing together,
nothing oversized, no tall towers,
just beautiful life, mint flourishing in a tin can,
schoolgirl in a fresh dress with a ruffle, mom and dad
staring from the windows—Can you see us?
Can you see any of us at all?