Gravitation, a poem by Maryam Qawwash from the new anthology You Must Live: New Poetry From Palestine (2026)
I’m really very thirsty. And there’s a glass of water here. But I can’t drink water mixed with mud. I can’t. My brother says, “I left it an hour for the muck to settle and then drank. Didn’t even taste clay. Try.”
I place the glass before me – watch sludge hemorrhage and leach down – like old history, like an hourglass – we’ve been waiting for the end – through it, the remains of nations, the remains of bodies pass – they lived once, they had memories – the rubble of houses, the murdered recollections that would’ve grown into love.
One hour goes by, two – I watch mud lump at the base. My brother went to the sheikh to ask if we can wash in muddy water. If it’s okay. The sheikh smiled, filled a bucket and gestured – pray with me. My brother says, “I drink this. Drink it with me.”
No. I would rather not. Even if I die of thirst.
Can I drink water polluted with history? Can I drink the earth’s memory? My brother stares into me holding his cupful, saying “We all drank.”
I reply, “I have had enough. I already drank my history.”
Gaza, 2024
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