Sunnyvale
dozens of children ran the streets of Fernwood Circle
in Sunnyvale,
there were apricot orchards here
just a few minutes walk from our home,
the land put to use to grow
in the Santa Clara Valley,
that was it then,
modest-sized homes in a row
holding large-sized Catholic Italian families
with names like Antonioni, Cava, and Visconti,
stopping by to say hello,
surrounded by the cooling shade
of tens of thousands of apricot trees
in the sweltering summer sun of Sunnyvale
we ran from our tough olive-skinned fathers
into the protection of soft fruiting bodies,
not understanding their anger or religion,
knowing we didn’t need to,
that their old world of migration and privation
would pass away
and ours would prevail, simply
children laughing in trees
nobody knew, really, what we had then,
that all of it could be taken away,
that these things would be fenced off high from the likes of us
our father planted a lemon tree in the front yard,
giving some life to the land
after his years of only taking it
in the European theatre of war,
our neighbors would come by
with empty paper bags to
relieve us of the extras
I remember walking alone one day
through the endless rows of apricot trees, towering,
enveloping my boyish frame,
the days were languid,
slow, and long
I crouched at one of their trunks,
dug in the dry earth
for bugs, examined exploded balls of fruit,
and rubbed handfuls of dirt across my legs just to feel it
yellow light peered through at me,
the Mediterranean sun had followed us there
every single one of those apricot trees
is gone now,
our parents are gone,
the children are gone,
the asphalt and the silicon
and the private armaments
uprooted all of us
today, different children of a
newer world blockaded the streets
going into and out of
the Lockheed Martin and Northrop Grumman facilities,
buildings full of data,
replacement parts, and deathly bodies
where our apricot orchards once stood,
full of systems managers
increasing their stock price
selling weapons to thirsty tyrants,
those tens of thousands of apricot trees, clear cut
so that tens of thousands of human beings
could be vaporized in an instant,
with names like Shawish, Halawa, and Al-Shanti
our apricot orchards sliced away
so that their olive orchards
in holy lands far away
could suffer the same
children digging in the dry earth
for bones, examining exploded shells of ordinance,
and rubbing their hands together in anguish
there is a saying in Arabic:
fil mishmish.
roughly translated:
in the time of the apricots.
it is said ironically to mean:
it will never happen.
our home in Sunnyvale is still there,
newly occupied,
the land worth millions
to those who run the facilities nearby
our father’s lemon tree still stands
there aren’t any neighbors stopping by to say hello,
there aren’t any children running the streets
of Fernwood Circle,
there aren’t any apricot trees for them to
escape to,
fil mishmish
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