NAVA ETSHALOM

Joshua Fought

Not citizens or trees, we’re crowded
beyond the olive grove
with its fine silver leaves

&

I gesture over the sound bomb
between us to introduce myself, offer
a handkerchief, a phone number

&

on the ridge above us, boys
lean close like cousins, percussive
in the shift from foot to foot

&

as it would have done with us
or without us, the Caterpillar comes, the sharp
yellow mouth, an elbowing
aside, and all the olive roots

give up their dirt and at least
we were here to see it

&

over the fallen, the muscles
of the face open
involuntarily, toward
some sun, in a fierce botany of refusal.