By Meshach Brencher

Wanted…
 
A canvas fit to stroke the infinite space
 
with the colours of madness
 
generations destroyed by
 
widespread discrimination
 
someone else’s fingertips
 
building clutches around dispossessed communities
 
minds expelled from frequent incursions
 
these subjects too sensitive
 
to be talking about
 
local citizens are monochrome paint palettes
 
walking up and down blind streets
 
futile colour schemes saturated
 
a habitat breeded by propaganda
 
these divided neighbourhoods
 
streetlamps tamed by watchtowers
 
hell-bent on capturing the oppressed
 
from expressing their reality
 
all media reports locked within a microscope
 
the TV operator finds it an ambiguous question
 
to call up about a network always breaking down
 
near the coastline of The West Bank Wall
 
so indulge on this famine
 
this diaspora
 
a bare bone windchime
 
tie toeing melodies on battlefields
 
impending harassment at checkpoints
 
is the tinkling sound in the draught
 
humiliation
 
it wears a crown of shackles
 
this throne sabotages its subjects
 
with kleptocratic injustices
 
wounded doors linger
 
forced open by yielding arms lustful
 
that wear blood and pillows palpitate
 
kisses that only resuscitate
 
spirits to be held in submission
 
villages spending weeks burning ashes
 
leaving relatives to cradle photos not fingertips
 
a child born to play in a deserted warzone
 
buckled buildings are their apparatus
 
yet beneath this rubble
 
olive branches lift their unyielded arms
 
to pave a pleading requiem
 
an image that doesn’t yet exist on this canvas
only a silhouette, obsolete
 
an abscess, contagious pathogen
 
a wish to breath green and carefree
 
revive a broken kingdom
 
every last drop of this pigment to stroke the heat away
 
this spirit resides on this land
 
allow it to be golden at the mercy of the enforcers