Eid, and I was fretting over the henna on my hands, 

press of my salwar, and set of both scarves. 
Eid, and my mother had a chair for the long prayer, 
carpet lush as grass under haggard feet. 
Eid, and there were donuts with sweet coffee
and milk noodles beside spiced rice. 
Eid, and a riverfront yawned before us 
as rippling indigo, glimmering.
Eid, and two scooters slipped past
the heavy curtain of night. 
Eid, and it was a whimsied blur
of blue gratitude.
 
Eid, and they were desperate for bread, salt, and water,
whether there’d be a tent for a short sleep. 
Eid, and the elders were starving for their children, 
and the children for their old parents.
Eid, and smiles for another sunrise, for breath, 
for tattered cloth, for honest faith. 
Eid, and the perpetual dawn of great loss, 
of apartheid become genocide. 
Eid, and birds swam in dust-draped air,
defying, shining, living. 
Eid, and it’s beyond apology,
valiant Palestine. 
 
Eid, and it was al-Adha: 
remember what that means.