Often, at night, my grandmother is handing me
the keys to her house in Beirut,
asking me to watch over it while she’s away.

Last night, her house was in Safad.
Limestone surrounded by olive trees
with the sun drenching every room.
She gives me a plant. With her tired eyes,
asks me to care for the soil so
it may care for us when we return to it.
No country marks a face
except to mark the time it
spent burning the roots from under its people’s feet
No shadows escape the velocity of exile
caused by maps drawn by hands
eager to own what wasn’t theirs to claim.