The Palestinian Chair

By Edward Salem

God said (and already you can tell

I’m making this up),

If you lift a rock, I am there.

If you lift a finger, I am there.

If Blackwater rips out your fingernails,

I am there. God said,

If you’re strapped into the contraption

the Israelis told the CIA they call

the Palestinian Chair,

hands tied to your ankles,

forcing you to lean forward in a crouch,

forcing all of your weight onto your thighs

as if you’ve been trapped in the act of kneeling

to pray, knees suspended above the floor,

arms pinned below your legs, blindfolded,

your head collapsed into your chest,

wheezing and gasping for air,

a pool of urine at your feet, too tired to cry,

but in too much pain to remain silent,

and the chair locks you into a permanent squat

from which you can’t recover,

I am there.

God said, when twenty million Yemenis

are silhouettes under pallid veils of skin

dying of starvation in 2016,

2020, 2024, 2028, 2032

while you scarf down lamb agadah

at Yemen Café in Hamtramck,

I am there.

After life is over,

you realize that

You were there.

For all of it.

It was all you.

Copyright Credit: Edward Salem, "The Palestinian Chair " from Monk Fruit. Copyright © 2025 by Edward Salem. Reprinted by permission of Nightboat Books.

Source: Monk Fruit (2025)