ALT Poem text: Colonizers write about flowers. I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks seconds before becoming daisies. I want to be like those poets who care about the moon. Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells and prisons. It’s so beautiful, the moon. They’re so beautiful, the flowers. I pick flowers for my dead father when I’m sad. He watches Al Jazeera all day. I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan. I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies. Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound. When I die, I promise to haunt you forever. One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.

ALT Text of the poem. The text reads: The Clothes Shrine It was a whole new sweetness In the early days to find Light white muslin blouses On a see-through nylon line Drip-drying in the bathroom Or a nylon slip in the shine Of its own electricity - As if St Brigid once more Had rigged up a ray of sun Like the one she’d strung on air To dry her own cloak on (Hard-pressed Brigid, so Unstoppably on the go) - The damp and slump and unfair Drag of the workaday Made light of and got through As usual, brilliantly. From Electric Light (2001)