Shrapnel maps

In his fourth collection (e.g., Sand Opera), Lebanese American Metres offers verse at once intimate and politically taut as he explores the conundrum of Israel/Palestine today. "Two people, one tree, not enough land or light or love" he says early on; "we lived in those leaves/ before we were torn,/ scissored from branch,/ shorn from the spine." Whether chronicling a border-crossing family wedding, a suicide bombing, or unease between Arab and Jewish neighbors, Metres portrays a beautiful but damaged landscape where deep-rooted political realities dominate, where a man finds "history/ holding him at passport control" and an activist "inserts the inked ribbon of herself/ between the black roller of history// and the alphabetic metal legs" of soldiers' rifles. VERDICT An aside says, "(this is not news, this is not poetry)," but Metres's thoughtful collection is both.

One TreeThey wanted to tear down the tulip tree, our neighbors, last year. It throws a shadow over their vegetable patch, the only tree in our backyard. We said no. Now they've hired someone to chainsaw an arm--the crux on our side of the fence--and my wife, in tousled hair and morning sweat, marches to stop the carnage, mid-limb. It reminds her of her childhood home, a shady place to hide. She recites her litany of no's, returns. Minutes later, the neighbors emerge. The worker points to our unblinded window. I want to say, it's not me, slide out of view behind a wall of cupboards, ominous breakfast table, steam of tea, our two young daughters now alone. I want no trouble. Must I fight for my wife's desire for yellow blooms when my neighbors' tomatoes will stunt and blight in shade? Always the same story: two people, one tree, not enough land or light or love. Like the baby brought to Solomon, someone must give. Dear neighbor, it's not me. Bloom-shadowed, light-deprived, they lower the chainsaw again.excerpt from When It Rains in Gaza for Deema ShehabiVIII. When it rains in Gaza, children run outof noise, lift their open lips to heaven. IX. White PhosphorusA jellyfish of smoke,you say aloud, look!--the beautiful photo'swhite tentacles and headswim the skybefore they fall. A privacyof glass. Ripples of division. Fleshfrom flesh, true godfrom true god, madein the walled island of unforgivennot not forgotten, dreaming where the past will lead. X.When it rained in Gaza, the ancient gravesof Beit Hanoun revealed themselves again.ورق ( of barbed wire I clear a linesharp enough to ribbon the flesh (& the village, where Omar nestsin his palm a bird whose wing is broken (he strokes & holds to his lipscoffee with cardamom & the circle of men: (all day, nearby, some machine putts as if trying to set the whole village to (motion: it won't startbut something is happening, or will: Excerpted from Shrapnel Maps by Philip Metres All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.